A Farewell To Arms

Viceregal Library.

Date.

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

IN OUR TIME
FIESTA

(Published in America with the title of
THK SCN ALSO rises)

MEN WITHOUT WOMEN

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

BY

ERNEST HEMINGWAY

JONATHAN GAPE

THIRTY BEDFORD SQ,UARE, LONDON

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None of the characters in this book is a living person, nor
are the units or military organizations mentioned actual
units or organizations.

E. H.

TO

G. A. P.

CHAPTER I

In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a
village that looked across the river and the plain to the
mountains. In the bed of the river there were pebbles and
boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was
clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops
went by the house and down the road and the dust they
raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the
trees too were dusty and the leaves fell early that year and
we saw the troops marching along the road and the dust
rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the
soldiers marching and afterwards the road bare and white
except for the leaves.

The plain was rich with crops; there w’'ere many
orchards of fruit trees and beyond the plain the mountains
were brown and bare. There was fighting in the moun-
tains and at night we could see the flashes from the
artillery. In the dark it was like summer lightning, but
the nights were cool and there was not the feeling of a
storm coming.

Sometimes in the dark we heard the troops marching
under the window and guns going past pulled by motor-
tractors. There was much traffic at night and many mules
on the roads with boxes of ammunition on each side of
their pack-saddles and grey motor-trucks that carried men,
and other trucks with loads covered with canvas that
moved slower in the traffic. There were big guns too that
passed in the day drawn by tractors, the long barrels of

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

the guns covered with green branches and green leafy
branches and vines laid over the tractors. To the north
we could look across a valley and see a forest of chestnut
trees and behind it another mountain on this side of the
river. There was fighting for that mountain too, but it
was not successful, and in the fall when the rains came
the leaves all fell from the chestnut trees and the branches
were bare and the trunks black with rain. The vineyards
were thin and bare-branched too and all the country wet
and brown and dead with the autumn. There were mists
over the river and clouds on the mountain and the trucks
splashed mud on the roads and the troops were muddy and
wet in their capes; their rifles were wet and under their
capes the two leather cartridge-boxes on the front of the
belts, grey leather boxes heavy with the packs of clips of
thin, long 6.5 mm. cartridges, bulged forward under the
capes so that the men, passing on the road, marched as
though they were six months gone with child.

There were small grey motor-cars that passed going
very fast; usually there was an officer on the seat with the
driver and more officers in the back seat. They splashed
more mud than the camions even and if one of the officers
in the back was very small and sitting between two
generals, he himself so small that you could not see his
face but only the top of his cap and his narrow back, and if
the car went especially fast it was probably the King.
He lived in Udine and came out in this w^ay nearly every
day to see how tilings were going, and things went very
badly.

At the start of the winter came the permanent rain and
with the rain came the cholera. But it was checked and
in the end only seven thousand died of it in the army.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

CHAPTER 2

The next year there were many victories. The mountain
that was beyond the valley and the hillside where the
chestnut forest grew was captured and there were
victories beyond the plain on the plateau to the south and
we crossed the river in August and lived in a house in
Gorizia that had a fountain and many thick shady trees in
a walled garden and a wistaria vine purple on the side of
the house. Now the fighting was in the next mountains
beyond and was not a mile away. The town was very nice
and our house was very fine. The river ran behind us and
the town had been captured very handsomely but the
mountains beyond it could not be taken and I was very
glad the Austrians seemed to want to come back to the
town some time, if the war should end, because they did
not bombard it to destroy it but only a little in a military
way. People lived on in it and there were hospitals and
cafes and artillery up side streets and two bawdy-houses,
one for troops and one for officers, and with the end of the
summer, the cool nights, the fighting in the mountains
beyond the town, the shell-marked iron of the railway
bridge, the smashed tunnel by the river where the fighting
had been, the trees around the square and the long avenue
of trees that led to the square; these with there being girls
in the town, the King passing in his motor-car, sometimes
now seeing his face and little long-necked body and grey
beard like a goat’s chin-tuft; all these with the sudden
interiors of houses that had lost a wall through shelling,
with plaster and rubble in their gardens and sometimes
in the street, and the whole thing going well on the Carso

13

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

made the fall very different from the last fall when we
had been in the country. The war was changed too.

The forest of oak trees on the mountain beyond the
town was gone. The forest had been green in the summer
when we had come into the town but now there were the
stumps and the broken trunks and the ground torn up,
and one day at the end of the fall when I was out where
the oak forest had been I saw a cloud coming over the
mountain. It came very fast and the sun went a dull
yellow and then everything was grey and the sky was
covered and the cloud came on down the mountain and
suddenly we were in it and it was snow. The snow slanted
across the wind, the bare ground was covered, the stumps of
trees projected, there was snow on the guns and there were
paths in the snow going back to the latrines behind trenches.

Later, below in the town, I watched the snow falling,
looking out of the window of the bawdy-house, the house
for officers, where I sat with a friend and two glasses
drinking a bottle of Asti, and, looking out at the snow
falling slowly and heavily, we knew it was all over for that
year. Up the river the mountains had not been taken; none
of the mountains beyond the river had been taken. That
was all left for next year. My friend saw the priest from
our mess going by in the street, walking carefully in the
slush, and pounded on the window^ to attract his attention.
The priest looked up. He saw us and smiled. My friend
motioned for him to come in. The priest shook his head
and went on. That night in the mess after the spaghetti
course, which every one ate very quickly and seriously,
lifting the spaghetti on the fork until the loose strands hung
clear then lowering it into the mouth, or else using a
continuous lift and sucking into the mouth, helping our-
selves to wine from the grass-covered gallon flask; it

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

swung in a metal cradle and you pulled the neck of the
flask down with the forefinger and the wine, clear red,
tannic and lovely, poured out into the glass held with the
same hand; after this course, the captain commenced
picking on the priest.

The priest was young and blushed easily and wore a
uniform like the rest of us but with a cross in dark red
velvet above the left breast-pocket of his grey tunic. The
captain spoke pidgin Italian for my doubtful benefit, in
order that I might understand perfectly, that nothing
should be lost.

Triest to-day with girls,’ the captain said looking at the
priest and at me. The priest smiled and blushed and shook
his head. This captain baited him often.

‘Not true?’ asked the captain. ‘To-day I see priest with
girls.’

‘No,’ said the priest. The other officers were amused at
the baiting.

‘Priest not with girls,’ went on the captain. ‘Priest
never with girls,’ he explained to me. He took my glass
and filled it, looking at my eyes all the time, but not losing
sight of the priest.

‘Priest every night five against one.’ Every one at the
table laughed. ‘You understand? Priest every night five
against one.’ He made a gesture and laughed loudly. The
priest accepted it as a joke.

‘The Pope wants the Austrians to win the war,’ the
major said. ‘He loves Franz Joseph. That’s where the
money comes from. I am an atheist.’

‘Did you ever read the Black PigV asked the lieutenant.
‘I will get you a copy. It was that which shook my faith.’

‘It is a filthy and vile book,’ said the priest. ‘You do not
really like it.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Tt is very valuable/ said the lieutenant. ^It tells you
about those priests. You will like it/ he said to me. I
smiled at the priest and he smiled back across the candle-
light. ‘Don’t you read it/ he said.

T will get it for 5^ou/ said the lieutenant.

‘All thinking men are atheists/ the major said. ‘I do
not believe in the Freemasons however.’

T believe in the Freemasons/ the lieutenant said. ‘It is
a noble organization.’ Someone came in and as the door
opened I could see the sxiow falling.

‘There will be no more offensive now that the snow has
come/ I said,

‘Certainly not/ said the major. ‘You should go on leave.
You should go to Rome, Naples, Sicily - ’

‘He should visit Am.alfi,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I will
write you cards to my family in Amalfi. They will love
you like a son.’

‘He should go to Palermo.’

‘He ought to go to Capri.’

‘I would like you to see Abruzzi and visit my family at
Capracotta,’ said the priest.

‘Listen to him talk about the Abruzzi. There’s more
snow there than here. He doesn’t v/ant to see peasants.
Let him go to centres of culture and civilization.’

‘He should have fine girls. I wdll give you the addresses
of places in Naples. Beautiful young girls - accompanied
by their mothers. Ha! Ha! Hal’

He looked at the priest and shouted, ‘Every night priest
five against one!’ They all laughed again.

‘You must go on leave at once,’ the major said.

‘I would like to go with you and show you things,’ the
lieutenant said.

‘When you come back bring a phonograph.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Bring good opera disks/

‘Bring Caruso/

‘Don’t bring Caruso. He bellows.’

‘Don’t you wish you could bellow like him?’

‘He bellows. I say he bellows!’

‘I would like you to go to Abruzzi,’ the priest said. The
others were shouting. ‘There is good hunting. You would
like the people and though it is cold it is clear and dry.
You could stay with my family. My father is a famous
hunter.’

‘Come on/ said the captain. ‘We go whore-house before
it shuts.’

‘Good night/ I said to the priest.

‘Good night,’ he said.

CHAPTER 3

When I came back to the front we still lived in that town.
There were many more guns in the country around and
the spring had come. The fields were green and there were
small green shoots on the vines, the trees along the road
had small leaves and a breeze came from the sea. I saw
the town with the hill and the old castle above it in a cup
in the hills with the mountains beyond, brown mountains
with a little green on their slopes. In the town there were
more guns, there were some new hospitals, you met British
men and sometimes women, on the street, and a few more
houses had been hit by shell-fire. It was warm and like
the spring and I walked down the alleyway of trees,
warmed from the sun on the wall, and found we still lived
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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

in the same house and that it all looked the same as when
I had left it. The door was open, there was a soldier
sitting on a bench outside in the sun, an ambulance was
waiting by the side door and inside the door, as I went in,
there was the smell of marble floors and hospital. It was
all as I had left it except that now it was spring. I looked
in the door of the big room and saw the major sitting at
his desk, the window open and the sunlight coming into
the room. He did not see me and I did not know whether
to go in and report or go upstairs first and clean up. I
decided to go on upstairs.

The room I shared with the lieutenant Rinaldi looked
out on the courtyard. The window was open, my bed
was made up with blankets and my things hung on the
wall, the gas-mask in an oblong tin can, the steel helmet
on the same peg. At the foot of the bed was my fiat trunk,
and my winter boots, the leather shiny with oil, were on
the trunk. My Austrian sniper’s rifle with its blued
octagon barrel and the lovely dark walnut, cheek-fitted,
schutzen stock, hung over the two beds. The telescope
that fitted it was, I remembered, locked in the trunk.
The lieutenant, Rinaldi, lay asleep on the other bed. He
woke when he heard me in the room and sat up.

‘Ciaou!’ he said. ‘What kind of time did you have?’

‘Magnificent.’

We shook hands and he put his arm around my neck
and kissed me.

‘Oughf,’ I said.

‘You’re dirty,’ he said. ‘You ought to wash. Where
did you go and what did you do? Tell me eveiything at
once.’

‘I went everyivhere. Milan, Florence, Rome, Naples,
Villa San Giovanni, Messina, Taormina - ’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Won talk like a time-table. Did you have any beautiful
adventures?^

Wesd

nVhere?’

^ Alilano, Firenze, Roma, Napoli - ’

What^s enough. Tell me really what was the best.'

Tn Milano.'

'That was because it was first. Where did you meet her?
In the Cova? Where did you go? How did you feel? Tell
me everything at once. Did you stay all night?’

Wes.’

'That’s nothing. Here now we have beautiful girls.
New girls never been to the front before.’

'Wonderful.’

'You don’t believe me? We will go now this afternoon
and see. And in the town we have beautiful English girls.
I am now in love with Miss Barkley. I will take you to call.
I will probably marry Miss Barkley.’

'I have to get washed and report. Doesn’t anybody
work now?’

'Since you are gone we have nothing but frostbites,
chilblains, jaundice, gonorrhoea, self-inflicted wounds,
pneumonia and hard and soft chancres. Every week some
one gets wounded by rock fragments. There are a few
real wounded. Next week the w^ar starts again. Perhaps it
starts again. They say so. Do you think I would do right
to marry Miss Barkley - after the war of course?’

'Absolutely,’ I said and poured the basin full of water.

'To-night you will tell me everything,’ said Rinaldi.
'Now I must go back to sleep to be fresh and beautiful for
Miss Barkley.’

I took off my tunic and shirt and washed in the cold
water in the basin. While I rubbed myself with a towel I

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

looked around the room and out the window and at Rinaldi
lying with his eyes closed on the bed. He was good“
looking, was my age, and he came from Amalfi. He loved
being a surgeon and we were great friends. While I was
looking at him he opened his eyes.

'Have you any money?’

'Yes.’

'Loan me fifty lire.’

I dried my hands and took out my pocket-book from
the inside of my tunic hanging on the wall. Rinaldi took
the note, folded it without rising from the bed and slid it
in his breeches pocket. He smiled, 'I must make on Miss
Barkley the impression of a man of sufficient wealth. You
are my great and good friend and financial protector.’

'Go to hell,’ I said.

That night at the mess I sat next to the priest and he
was disappointed and suddenly hurt that I had not gone
to the Abnazzi. He had written to his father that I was
coming and they had made preparations. I myself felt
as badly as he did and could not understand why I had
not gone. It was what I had wanted to do and I tried to
explain hov/ one thing had led to another and finally he
saw it and understood that I had really wanted to go and
it was almost all right. I had drunk much wine and
afterwards coffee and Strega and I explained, winefully,
how we did not do the things we wanted to do; we never
did such things.

We two were talking while the others argued. I had
wanted to go to Abruzzi. I had gone to no place where
the roads were frozen and hard as iron, where it was clear
cold and dry and the snoAV was dry and powdery and
hare-tracks in the snow and the peasants took off their
hats and called you Lord and there was good hunting.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafes and
nights when the room whirled and you needed to look at
the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you
knew that that was all there was, and the strange excite-
ment of waking and not knowing who it w^as with you^
and the world all unreal in the dark and so exciting that
you must resume again unknowing and not caring in the
night, sure that this was all and all and all and not caring.
Suddenly to care very much and to sleep, to w^ake with it
sometimes morning and all that had been there gone and
everything sharp and hard and clear and sometimes a
dispute about the cost. Sometimes still pleasant and fond
and warm and breakfast and lunch. Sometimes all nice-
ness gone and glad to get out on the street but always
another day starting and then another night. I tried to
tell about the night and the difference between the night
and the day and how^ the night was better unless the day
was very clean and cold and I could not tell it; as I cannot
tell it now. But if you have had it you know. He had not
had it but he understood that I had really wanted to go
to the Abruzzi but had not gone and we were still friends,
with many tastes alike, but with the difference between
us. He had always known what I did not know and what,
when I learned it, I w^as always able to forget. But I did
not know that then, although I learned it later. In the
meantime we were all at the mess, the meal was finished,
and the argument went on. We two stopped talking and
the captain shouted, Triest not happy. Priest not happy
without girls.’

T am happy,’ said the priest.

‘Priest not happy. Priest wants Austrians to win the
war,’ the captain said. The others listened. The priest
shook his head.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘No,’ he said.

‘Priest wants us never to attack. Don’t you want us
never to attack?’

‘No. If there is a war I suppose we must attack.’

‘Must attack. Shall attack!’

The priest nodded.

‘Leave him alone,’ the major said. ‘He’s all right.”
‘He can’t do anything about it anyway,’ the captain
said. We all got up and left the table.

CHAPTER 4

The battery in the next garden woke me in the morning
and I saw the sun coming through the window and got
out of the bed. I went to the window and looked out.
The gravel paths were moist and the grass was wet with
dew. The battery fired twice and the air came each
time like a blow and shook the window and made the
front of my pyjamas flap. I could not see the guns but
they were evidently firing directly over us. It was a
nuisance to have them there but it was a comfort that
they were no bigger. As I looked out at the garden I
heard a motor- truck starting on the road. I dressed,
went downstairs, had some coffee in the kitchen and
went out to the garage.

Ten cars were lined up side by side under the long
shed. They were top-heavy, blunt-nosed ambulances,
painted grey and built like moving-vans. The mechanics
were working on one out in the yard. Three others were
up in the mountains at dressing-stations.

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Do they ever shell that battery?' I asked one of the
mechanics.

'No, Signor Tenente. It is protected by the little
hill.’

'How’s everything?’

'Not so bad. This machine is no good but the others
march.’ He stopped working and smiled. 'Were you
on permission?’

'Yes.’

He wiped his hands on his jumper and grinned. 'You
have a good time?’ The others all grinned too.

'Fine,’ I said. 'What’s the matter with this machine?’

'It’s no good. One thing after another.’

'What’s the matter now?’

'New rings.’

I left them working, the car looking disgraced and
empty with the engine open and parts spread on the
work-bench, and went in under the shed and looked at
each of the cars. They were moderately clean, a few
freshly washed, the others dusty. I looked at the tyres
carefully, looking for cuts or stone bruises. Every-
thing seemed in good condition. It evidently made no
difference whether I was there to look after things or
not. I had imagined that the condition of the cars,
whether or not things were obtainable, the smooth func-
tioning of the business of removing wounded and sick
from the dressing-stations, hauling them back from the
mountains to the clearing-station and then distributing
them to the hospitals named on their papers, depended
to a considerable extent on myself. Evidently it did not
matter whether I was there or not.

'Has there been any trouble getting parts?’ I asked
the sergeant mechanic.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘No, Signor Tenente.’

‘Where is the gasolene park now?’

‘At the same place.’

‘Good,’ I said and went back to the house and drank
another bowl of coffee at the mess table. The coffee was
a pale grey and sweet with condensed milk. Outside
the window it was a lovely spring morning. There was
that beginning of a feeling of dryness in the nose that
meant the day would be hot later on. That day I visited
the posts in the mountains and was back in town late in
the afternoon.

The whole thing seemed to run better while I was
away. The offensive was going to start again I heard.
The division for which we worked were to attack at a
place up the river and the major told me that I would see
about the posts for during the attack. The attack would
cross the river up above the narrow gorge and spread up
the hillside. The posts for the cars would have to be
as near the river as they could get and keep covered.
They would, of course, be selected by the infantry but
we were supposed to work it out. It was one of those
things that gave you a false feeling of soldiering.

I was very dusty and dirty and went up to my room
to wash, Rinaldi w^as sitting on the bed with a copy of
Hugo’s English grammar. He was dressed, wore his
black boots, and his hair shone,

‘Splendid,’ he said when he saw me. ‘You will come
with me to see Miss Barkley,’

‘No.’

‘Yes. You will please come and make me a good
impression on her.’

‘All right. Wait till I get cleaned up.’

‘Wash up and come as you are.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

I washed, brushed my hair and we started.

‘Wait a minute/ Rinaldi said. Terhaps we should
have a drink.’ He opened his trunk and took out a
bottle.

'Not Strega/ I said.

'No. Grappa.’

'All right.’

He poured tw^o glasses and we touched them, first
fingers extended. The grappa was very strong.

'Another.^’

'All right/ I said. We drank the second grappa,
Rinaldi put away the bottle and we went down the
stairs. It was hot walking through the town but the sun
was starting to go down and it was very pleasant. The
British hospital was a big villa built by Germans before
the war. Miss Barkley was in the garden. Another
nurse was with her. We saw their white uniforms through
the trees and walked toward them. Rinaldi saluted. I
saluted too but more moderately.

'How do you do?’ Miss Barkley said. 'You’re not an
Italian, are you?’

‘Oh, no.’

Rinaldi was talking with the other nurse. They were
laughing.

‘What an odd thing ~ to be in the Italian army.’

'It’s not really the army. It’s only the ambulance.’

'It’s very odd though. Why did you do it?’

'I don’t loiow,’ I said. 'There isn’t always an explana-
tion for ever}i:hing.’

'Oh, isn’t there? I was brought up to think there
was.’

'That’s awfully nice.’

'Do we have to go on and talk this way?’

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

^No/ I said.

‘That’s a relief. Isn’t it?’

‘What is the stick?’ I asked. Miss Barkley was quite
tall. She wore what seemed to me to be a nurse’s uniform,
was blonde and had a tawny skin and grey eyes. I thought
she was very beautiful. She was carrying a thin rattan
stick like a toy riding-crop, bound in leather.

Tt belonged to a boy who was killed last year.’

T’m awfully sorry.’

‘He was a very nice boy. He was going to marry me
and he was killed on the Somme.’

Tt was a ghastly show.’

‘Were you there?’

‘No.’

T’ve heard about it,’ she said. ‘There’s not really
any war of that sort down here. They sent me the little
stick. His mother sent it to me. They returned it with
his things.’

‘Had you been engaged long?’

‘Eight years. We grew up together.’

‘And why didn’t you marry?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I was a fool not to. 1 could
have given him that anyway. But I thought it would
be bad for him.’

‘I see.’

‘Have you ever loved anyone?’

‘No,’ I said.

We sat down on a bench and I looked at her.

‘You have beautiful hair,’ I said.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Very much.’

‘I was going to cut it all off when he died.’

‘No.’

26

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T wanted to do something for him. You see I didn’t
care about the other thing and he could have had it all.
He could have had anything he wanted if I had known.
I would have married him or anything. I know all about
it now. But then he wanted to go to war and I didn’t
know.’

I did not say an5thing.

T didn’t know about anything then. I thought it
would be worse for him. I thought perhaps he couldn’t
stand it and then of course he was killed and that was
the end of it.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘That’s the end of it.’

We looked at Rinaldi talking with the other nurse.

‘What was her name?’

‘Ferguson. Helen Ferguson. Your friend is a doctor,
isn’t he?’

‘Yes. He’s very good.’

‘That’s splendid. You rarely find any one any good
this close to the front. This is close to the front, isn’t
it?’

‘Quite.’

‘It’s a silly front,’ she said. ‘But it’s very beautiful.
Are they going to have an offensive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we’ll have to work. There’s no work now.’

‘Have you done nursing long?’

‘Since the end of ’fifteen. I started when he did. I
remember having a silly idea he might come to the
hospital where I was. With a sabre cut, I suppose, and a
bandage around his head. Or shot through the shoulder.
Something picturesque.’

‘This is the picturesque front,’ I said.

27

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘People can’t realize what France is
like. If they did it couldn’t all go on. He didn’t have
a sabre cut. They blew him all to bits.’

I didn’t say an3rthing.

‘Do you suppose it will always go on?’

‘No.’

‘What’s to stop it?’

‘It will crack somewhere.’

‘We’ll crack. We’ll crack in France. They can’t go
on doing things like the Somme and not crack.’

‘They won’t crack here,’ I said.

‘You think not?’

‘No. They did very well last summer.’

‘They may crack,’ she said. ‘Anybody may crack.’
‘The Germans too.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I think not.’

We went over toward Rinaldi and Miss Ferguson.

‘You love Italy?’ Rinaldi asked Miss Ferguson in
English.

‘Quite well.’

‘No understand,’ Rinaldi shook his head.

Bastante bene,’ I translated. He shook his head.

‘That is not good. You love England?’

‘Not too well. I’m Scottish,- you see.’

Rinaldi looked at me blankly.

She s Scottish, so she loves Scotland better than Eng-
land,’ I said in Italian.

‘But Scotland is England.’

I translated this for Miss Ferguson.

‘Pas encore,’ said Miss Ferguson.

‘Not really?’

‘Never. We do not like the English.’

‘Not like the English? Not like Miss Barkley?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

*Oh, that’s different. She’s partly Scottish too. You
mustn’t take everything so literally.’

After a while we said good night and left. Walking
home Rinaldi said, ‘Miss Barkley prefers you to me.
That is very clear. But the little Scottish one is very
nice.’

‘Very/ I said. I had not noticed her. ‘You like her?’

‘No/ said Rinaldi.

CHAPTER 5

The next afternoon I went to call on Miss Barkley
again. She was not in the garden and I went to the
side door of the villa where the ambulances drove up.
Inside I saw the head nurse, who said Miss Barkley was
on duty - ‘there’s a war on, you know.’

I said I knew.

‘You’re the American in the Italian army?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘How did you happen to do that? Why didn’t you
join up with us?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Could I join now?’

‘I’m afraid not now. Tell me. Why did you join up
with the Italians?’

‘I was in Italy,’ I said, ‘and I spoke Italian.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m learning it. It’s a beautiful lan-
guage.’

‘Somebody said you should be able to learn it in two
weeks.’

‘Oh, I’ll not learn it in two weeks. I’ve studied it for

29

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

months now. You may come and see her after seven
o’clock if you wish. She’ll be off then. But don’t bring
a lot of Italians.’

‘Not even for the beautiful language?’

‘No. Nor for the beautiful uniforms.’

‘Good evening,’ I said.

‘A rivederci, Tenente.’

‘A rivederla.’ I saluted and went out. It was im-
possible to salute foreigners as an Italian, without em-
barrassment. The Italian salute never seemed made for
export.

The day had been hot. I had been up the river to the
bridgehead at Plava. It was there that the offensive was
to begin. It had been impossible to advance on the far
side the year before because there was only one road
leading down from the pass to the pontoon bridge and it
was under machine-gun and shell fire for nearly a mile.
It was not wide enough either to carry all the transport
for an offensive and the Austrians could make a shambles
out of it. But the Italians had crossed and spread out
a little way on the far side to hold about a mile and a
half on the Austrian side of the river. It was a nasty
place and the Austrians should not have let them hold
it. I suppose it was mutual tolerance because the Austrians
still kept a bridgehead further down the river. The
Austrian trenches were above on the hill-side only a
few yards from the Italian lines. There had been a
little town but it was all rubble. There was what was
left of a railway station and a smashed permanent bridge
that could not be repaired and used because it was in
plain sight.

I went along the narrow road down towards the river,
left the car at the dressing-station under the hill, crossed

30

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

the pontoon bridge, which was protected by a shoulder
of the mountain, and went through the trenches in the
smashed-down town and along the edge of the slope.
Everybody was in the dugouts. There were racks of
rockets standing to be touched off to call for help from
the artillery or to signal with if the telephone wires
were cut. It was quiet, hot and dirty. I looked across the
wire at the Austrian lines. Nobody was in sight. I had
a drink with a captain that I knew in one of the dugouts
and went back across the bridge.

A new wide road was being finished that would go over
the mountain and zig-zag down to the bridge. When
this road was finished the offensive would start. It came
down through the forest in sharp turns. The system
was to bring everything down the new road and take the
empty trucks, carts and loaded ambulances and all
returning traffic up the old narrow road. The dressing-
station was on the Austrian side of the river under the
edge of the hill and stretcher-bearers would bring the
wounded back across the pontoon bridge. It would
be the same when the offensive started. As far as I
could make out the last mile or so of the new road where
it started to level out would be able to be shelled steadily
by the Austrians. It looked as though it might be a
mess. But I found a place where the cars would be
sheltered after they had passed that last bad-looking
bit and could wait for the wounded to be brought across
the pontoon bridge. I would have liked to drive over the
new road but it was not yet finished. It looked wide
and well made with a good grade and the turns looked
very impressive where you could see them through
openings in the forest on the mountain side. The cars
would be all right with their good metal-to-metal brakes

31

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

and an3rvvay, coming down, they v/ould not be loaded,
I drove back up the narrow road.

Two carabinieri held the car up. A shell had fallen
and while we waited three others fell up the road. They
were seventy-sevens and came with a whishing rush of
air, a hard bright burst and flash and then grey smoke
that blew across the road. The carabinieri waved us to
go on. Passing where the shells had landed I avoided
the small broken places and smelled the high explosive
and the smell of blasted clay and stone and freshly-
shattered flint. I drove back to Gorizia and our villa and,
as I said, went to call on Miss Barkley, who was on
duty.

At dinner I ate very quickly and left for the villa
where the British had their hospital. It was really very
large and beautiful and there were fine trees in the
grounds. Miss Barkley was sitting on a bench in the
garden. Miss Ferguson was with her. They seemed
glad to see me and in a little while Miss Ferguson excused
herself and went away.

T’ll leave you two,’ she said. ‘You get along very
well without me.’

‘Don’t go, Helen,’ Miss Barkley said.

‘I’d really rather. I must write some letters.’

‘Good night,’ I said.

‘Good night, Mr. Henry.’

‘Don’t write anything that will bother the censor.’

‘Don’t worry. I only write about wLat a beautiful
place we live in and how brave the Italians are.’

‘That way you’ll be decorated.’

‘That will be nice. Good night, Catherine.’

‘I’ll see you in a little while,’ Miss Barkley said. Miss
Ferguson walked away in the dark,

3 ^

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'She’s nice/ I said.

'Oh, yes, she’s very nice. She’s a nurse.’

' Aren’t you a nurse?’

'Oh, no. I’m something called a V.A.D. We work
very hard but no one trusts us.’

'Why not?’

'They don’t trust us when there’s nothing going on.
When there is really work they trust us.’

'What is the difference?’

'A nurse is like a doctor. It takes a long time to be,
A V.A.D. is a short cut.’

T see.’

'The Italians didn’t want women so near the front.
So we’re all on very special behaviour. We don’t go out.’

'I can come here though.’

'Oh, yes. We’re not cloistered.’

'Let’s drop the war.’

'It’s very hard. There’s no place to drop it,’

'Let’s drop it anyway.’

‘All right.’

We looked at each other in the dark. I thought she
was very beautiful and I took her hand. She let me
take it and I held it and put my arm around under her
arm.

‘No,’ she said. I kept my arm where it was.

‘Why not?’

‘No.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Please.’ I leaned forward in the dark
to kiss her and there was a sharp stinging flash. She
had slapped my face hard. Her hand had hit my nose
and eyes, and tears came in my eyes from the reflex.

'I’m so sorry,’ she said. I felt I had a certain ad-
vantage,
c

33

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'You were quite right.’

T’m dreadfully sorry,’ she said, T just couldn’t stand
the nurse’s-evening-off aspect of it. I didn’t mean to
hurt you. I did hurt you, didn’t I?’

She was looking at me in the dark. I was angry and
yet certain, seeing it all ahead like the moves in a chess
game.

‘You did exactly right,’ I said. T don’t mind at all.”

‘Poor man.’

‘You see I’ve been leading a sort of a funny life. And
I never even talk English. And then you are so very
beautiful.’ I looked at her.

‘You don’t need to say a lot of nonsense. I said I was
sorry. We do get along.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And we have gotten away from the
war.’

She laughed. It was the first time I had ever heard
her laugh. I watched her face.

‘You are sweet,’ she said,

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Yes. You are a dear, I’d be glad to kiss you if you
don’t mind.’

I looked in her eyes and put my arm around her as I
had before and kissed her. I kissed her hard and held
her tight and tried to open her lips ; they were closed
tight. I was still angry and as I held her suddenly she
shivered. I held her close against me and could feel
her heart beating and her lips opened and her head went
back against my hand and then she was crying on my
shoulder.

‘Oh, darling,’ she said, ‘You will be good to me,
won’t you?’

What the hell, I thought. I stroked her hair and patted
her shoulder. She was crying.

34

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'You will, won’t you?’ She looked up at me. 'Because
we’re going to have a strange life.’

After a while I walked with her to the door of the
villa and she went in and I walked home. Back at the
villa I went upstairs to the room. Rinaldi was lying on
his bed. He looked at me.

'So you make progress with Miss Barkley?’

'We are friends.’

‘You have that pleasant air of a dog in heat.’

I did not understand the word,

'Of a what?’

He explained.

‘You/ I said, 'have that pleasant air of a dog who - ’

‘Stop it,’ he said. 'In a little while we would say
insulting things.’ He laughed. ^

'Good night/ I said.

‘Good night, little puppy.’

I knocked over his candle with the pillow and got into
bed in the dark.

Rinaldi picked up the candle, lit it and went on
reading.

CHAPTER 6

I WAS away for two days at the posts. When I got home
it was too late and I did not see Miss Barkley until the
next evening. She was not in the garden and I had to
wait in the office of the hospital until she came down.
There were many marble busts on painted wooden
pillars along the walls of the room they used for an
office. The hall too, that the office opened on, was lined

35

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

with them. They had the complete marble quality of all
looking alike. Sculpture had always seemed a dull
business - still bronzes looked like something. But
marble busts all looked like a cemetery. There was
one fine cemetery though - the one at Pisa. Genoa was
the place to see the bad marbles. This had been the
villa of a very wealthy German and the busts must have
cost him plenty. I wondered who had done them and
how much he got. I tried to make out whether they
were members of the family or what; but they were all
uniformly classical. You could not tell anything about
them.

I sat on a chair and held my cap. We were supposed
to wear steel helmets even in Gorizia but they were un-
comfortable and too theatrical in a town where the
civilian inhabitants had not been evacuated. I wore
one when we went up to the posts, and carried an English
gas-mask. We were just beginning to get some of them.
They were a real mask. Also we were required to wear
an automatic pistol; even doctors and sanitary officers.
I felt it against the back of the chair. You were liable
to arrest if you did not have one worn in plain sight.
Rinaldi carried a holster stuffed with toilet paper. I
wore a real one and felt like a gunman until I practised
firing it. It was an Astra 7.65 calibre with a short barrel
and it jumped so sharply when you let it off that there
was no question of hitting anything. I practised with it,
holding below the target and trying to master the jerk
of the ridiculous short barrel until I could hit within a
yard of where I aimed at twenty paces and then the
ridiculousness of carrying a pistol at all came over me
and I soon forgot it and carried it flopping against the
small of my back with no feeling at all except a vague

36

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

sort of shame when I met English-speaking people.
I sat now in the chair and an orderly of some sort looked
at me disapprovingly from behind a desk while I looked
at the marble floor, the pillars with the marble busts,
and the frescoes on the wall and waited for Miss Barkley.
The frescoes were not bad. Any frescoes were good
when they started to peel and flake off.

I saw Catherine Barkley coming down the hall, and
stood up. She did not seem tall walking toward me but
she looked very lovely.

^Good evening, Mr. Henry,’ she said.

‘How do you do?’ I said. The orderly was listening
behind the desk.

‘Shall we sit here or go out in the garden?’

‘Let’s go out. It’s much cooler.’

I walked behind her out into the garden, the orderly
looking after us. When we w^ere out on the gravel drive
she said, ‘Where have you been?’

‘I’ve been out on post.’

‘You couldn’t have sent me a note?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not very well. I thought I was coming
back.’

‘You ought to have let me know, darling.’

We were off the driveway, walking under the trees.
I took her hands, then stopped and kissed her.

‘Isn’t there anywhere we can go?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘We have to just walk here. You’ve
been away a long time.’

‘This is the third day. But I’m back now.’

She looked at me. ‘And you do love me?’

‘Yes.’

‘You did say you loved me, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘I love you.’ I had not said it before.

37

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘And you call me Catherine?’

‘Catherine.’ We walked on a way and were stopped
under a tree.

‘Say, “I’ve come back to Catherine in the night.” ’

‘I’ve come back to Catherine in the night.’

‘Oh, darling, you have come back, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I love you so and it’s been awful. You won’t go
away?’

‘No. I’ll always come back.’

‘Oh, I love you so. Please put your hand there again.’

‘It’s not been away.’ I turned her so I could see
her face when I kissed her and I saw that her eyes
were shut. I kissed both her shut eyes. I thought she
was probably a little crazy. It was all right if she was. I
did not care what I was getting into. This was better than
going every evening to the house for officers where the
girls climbed all over you and put your cap on back-
ward as a sign of affection between their trips upstairs
with brother officers. I knew I did not love Catherine
Barkley nor had any idea of loving her. This was a
game, like bridge, in which you said things instead of
playing cards. Like bridge you had to pretend you
were playing for money or playing for some stakes.
Nobody had mentioned what the stakes were. It was all
right with me.

‘I wish there was some place we could go,’ I said.
I was experiencing the masculine difficulty of making
love very long standing up.

‘There isn’t any place,’ she said. She came back
from wherever she had been.

‘We might sit there just for a little while.’

We sat on the flat stone bench and I held Catherine

38

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Barkley’s hand. She would not let me put my arm
around her.

‘Are you very tired?’ she asked.

‘No.’

She looked down at the grass.

‘This is a rotten game we play, isn’t it?’

‘What game?’

‘Don’t be dull.’

‘I’m not, on purpose.’

‘You’re a nice boy,’ she said. ‘And you play it as well
as you know how. But it’s a rotten game.’

‘Do you always know what people think?’

‘Not always. But I do with you. You don’t have to
pretend you love me. That’s over for the evening. Is
there anything you’d like to talk about?’

‘But I do love you.’

‘Please let’s not lie when we don’t have to. I had
a very fine little show and I’m all right now. You see
I’m not mad and I’m not gone off. It’s only a little
sometimes.’

I pressed her hand, ‘Dear Catherine.’

‘It sounds very funny now — Catherine. You don’t
pronounce it very much alike. But you’re very nice.
You’re a very good boy.’

‘That’s what the priest said.’

‘Yes, you’re very good. And you will come and see
me?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you don’t have to say you love me. That’s all
over for a while.’ She stood up and put out her hand.
‘Good night.’

I wanted to kiss her.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m awfully tired.’

39

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Kiss me, though,’ I said.

‘I’m awfully tired, darling.’

‘Kiss me.’

‘Do you want to very much?’

‘Yes.’

We kissed and she broke away suddenly. ‘No. Good
night, please, darling.’ We walked to the door and I saw
her go in and down the hall. I liked to watch her move.
She went on down the hall. I went on home. It was
a hot night and there was a good deal going on up in the
mountains. I watched the flashes on San Gabriele.

I stopped in front of the Villa Rossa. The shutters
were \ip but it was still going on inside. Somebody was
singing. I went on home. Rinaldi came in while I was
undressing.

‘Ah, ha!’ he said. ‘It does not go so well. Baby is
puzzled.’

‘Where have you been?’

‘At the Villa Rossa. It was very edifying, baby. We
all sang. Where have you been?’

‘Calhng on the British.’

‘Thank God I did not become involved with the
British.’

CHAPTER 7

I CAME back the next afternoon from our first moun-
tain post and stopped the car at the smistimento where
the wounded and sick were sorted by their papers and
the papers marked for the different hospitals. I had
been driving and I sat in the car and the driver took the

40

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

papers in. It was a hot day and the sky was very bright
and blue and the road was white and dusty. I sat in the
high seat of the Fiat and thought about nothing. A
regiment went by in the road and I watched them pass.
The men were hot and sweating. Some wore their steel
helmets but most of them carried them slung from their
packs. Most of the helmets were too big and came
down almost over the ears of the men who wore them.
The officers all wore helmets; better-fitting helmets. It
was half of the Brigata Basilicata. I identified them by
their red and white striped collar mark. There were
stragglers going b)^ long after the regiment had passed
- men who could not keep up with their platoons. They
were sweaty, dusty and tired. Some looked pretty bad.
A soldier came along after the last of the stragglers.
He was walking with a limp. He stopped and sat down
beside the road. I got down and went over.

‘What’s the matter ? ”

He looked at me, then stood up.

T’m going on.’

‘What’s the trouble?’

‘ — the war.’

‘What’s wrong with your leg?’

‘It’s not my leg. I got a rupture.’

‘Why don’t you ride with the transport?’ I asked.
‘Why don’t you go to the hospital?’

‘They won’t let me. The lieutenant said I slipped the
truss on purpose,’

‘Let me feel it.’

‘It’s way out.’

‘Which side is it on?’

‘Here,’

I felt it.

41

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Cough,’ I said.

‘I’m afraid it will make it bigger. It’s twice as big as
it was this morning.’

‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘As soon as I get the papers on
these wounded I’ll take you along the road and drop you
with, your medical officers.’

‘He’ll say I did it on purpose.’

‘They can’t do an5^hing,’ I said. ‘It’s not a wound.
You’ve had it before, haven’t you?’

‘But I lost the truss.’

‘They’ll send you to a hospital.’

‘Can’t I stay here, Tenente?

‘No. I haven’t any papers for you.’

The driver came out of the door with the papers for
the wounded in the car.

‘Four for 105. Two for 132,’ he said. They were
hospitals beyond the river.

‘You drive,’ I said. I helped the soldier with the
rupture up on the seat with us.

‘You speak English?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

‘How you like this goddam war?’

‘Rotten.’

‘I say it’s rotten. Jesus Christ, I say it’s rotten.’

‘Were you in the States?’

‘Sure. In Pittsburg. I knew you was an American.’
‘Don’t I talk Italian good enough?’

‘I knew you was an American all right.’

‘Another American,’ said the driver in Italian looking
at the hernia man.

‘Listen, lootenant. Do you have to take me to that
regiment?’

‘Yes.’

42

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Because the captain doctor knew I had this rupture.
I threw away the goddam truss so it would get bad and
I wouldn’t have to go to the line again.’

T see.’

‘Couldn’t you take me no place else?’

Tf it was closer to the front I could take you to a
first medical post. But back here you’ve got to have
papers.’

‘If I go back they’ll make me get operated on and
then they’ll put me in the line all the time.’

I thought it over.

‘You wouldn’t want to go in the line all the time,
would you?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Jesus Christ, ain’t this a goddam war?’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You get out and fall down by the
road and get a bump on your head and I’ll pick you up
on our way back and take you to a hospital. We’ll stop
by the road here, Aldo.’ We stopped at the side of the
road. I helped him down.

‘I’ll be right here, lieutenant,’ he said.

‘So long,’ I said. We went on and passed the regiment
about a mile ahead, then crossed the river, cloudy with
snow water and running fast through the spiles of the
bridge, to ride along the road across the plain and deliver
the wounded at the two hospitals. I drove coming back
and went fast with the empty car to find the man from
Pittsburg. First we passed the regiment, hotter and
slower than ever: then the stragglers. Then we raw a
horse ambulance stopped by the road. Two men were
lifting the hernia man to put him in. They had come
back for him. He shook his head at me. His helmet was
off and his forehead was bleeding below the hair line.

43

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

His nose was skinned and there was dust on the bloody
patch and dust in his hair.

‘Look at the bump, lieutenant!’ he shouted. ‘Nothing
to do. They come back for me.’

When I got back to the villa it was five o’clock and I
went out where we washed the cars, to take a shower.
Then I made out my report in my room, sitting in my
trousers and an undershirt in front of the open window.
In two days the offensive was to start and I would go
with the cars to Plava. It was a long time since I had
written to the States and I loiew I should write but I
had let it go so long that it was almost impossible to
write now. There was nothing to write about. I sent
a couple of army Zona di Guerra post-cards, crossing
out everything except I am well. That should handle
them. Those post-cards would be very fine in America;
strange and mysterious. This was a strange and mysterious
war zone but I supposed it was quite well run and grim
compared to other wars with the Austrians. The
Austrian army was created to give Napoleon victories;
any Napoleon. I wished we had a Napoleon, but instead
we had II Generale Cadoma, fat and prosperous, and
Vittorio Emmanuele, the tiny man with the long thin
neck and the goat beard. Over on the right they had
the Duke of Aosta. Maybe he was too good-looking
to be a great general but he looked like a man. Lots
of them would have liked him to be king. He looked
like a king. He was the King’s uncle and commanded
the third army. We were in the second army. There were
some British batteries up with the third army. I had
met two gunners from that lot, in Milan. They were
very nice and we had a big evening. They were big

44

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

and shy and embarrassed and very appreciative together
of anything that happened. I wished that I was with the
British. It would have been much simpler. Still I would
probably have been killed. Not in this ambulance busi-
ness. Yes, even in the ambulance business. British
ambulance drivers were killed sometimes. Well, I knew
I would not be killed. Not in this war. It did not have
anything to do with me. It seemed no more dangerous
to me myself than war in the movies. I wished to God it
was over though. Maybe it would finish this summer.
Maybe the Austrians would crack. They had always
cracked in other wars. What was the matter with this
war? Everybody said the French were through. Rinaldi
said that the French had mutinied and troops marched
on Paris. I asked him what happened and he said, ‘Oh,
they stopped them.' I wanted to go to Austria without
war. I wanted to go to the Black Forest. I wanted to
go to the Hartz Mountains. Where were the Hartz
Mountains anyway? They were fighting in the Car-
pathians. I did not want to go there an3way. It might
be good though. I could go to Spain if there was no
war. The sun was going down and the day was cooling
off. After supper I would go and see Catherine Barkley.
I wished she were here now. I wished I were in Milan
with her. I would like to eat at the Cova and then walk
down the Via Manzoni in the hot evening and cross over
and turn off along the canal and go to the hotel with
Catherine Barkley. Maybe she would. Maybe she
would pretend that I was her boy that was killed and
we would go in the front door and the porter would
take off his cap and I would stop at the concierge's desk
and ask for the key and she would stand by the elevator
and then we would get in the elevator and it would go

45

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

up very slowly clicking at all the floors and then our
floor and the boy would open the door and stand there
and she would step out and I would step out and we would
walk down the hall and I would put the key in the door
and open it and go in and then take down the telephone
and ask them to send a bottle of capri bianca in a silver
bucket full of ice and you would hear the ice against
the pail coming down the corridor and the boy would
knock and I would say leave it outside the door please.
Because we would not wear any clothes because it was
so hot and the window open and the swallows flying
over the roofs of the houses and when it was dark after-
ward and you went to the window very small bats hunting
over the houses and close down over the trees and we
would drink the capri and the door locked and it hot and
only a sheet and the whole night and we would both
love each other all night in the hot night in Milan. That
was how it ought to be. I would eat quickly and go and
see Catherine Barkley.

They talked too much at the mess and I drank wine
because to-night we were not all brothers unless I drank
a little and talked with the priest about Archbishop
Ireland who was, it seemed, a noble man and with whose
injustice, the injustices he had received and in which I
participated as an American, and of which I had never
heard, I feigned acquaintance. It would have been im-
polite not to have known something of them when I had
listened to such a splendid explanation of their causes
which were, after all, it seemed, misunderstandings. I
thought he had a fine name and he came from Minne-
sota which made a lovely name: Ireland of Minnesota,
Ireland of Wisconsin, Ireland of Michigan. What made
it pretty was that it sounded like Island. No that wasn’t

46

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

it. There was more to it than that. Yes, father. That
is true, father. Perhaps, father. No, father. Well,
maybe yes, father. You know more about it than I do,
father. The priest was good but dull. The officers
were not good but dull. The King was good but dull.
The wine was bad but not dull. It took the enamel off
your teeth and left it on the roof of your mouth.

‘And the priest was locked up,’ Rocca said, ‘because
they found the three per cent, bonds on his person.
It was in France of course. Here they would never
have arrested him. He denied all knowledge of the five
per cent, bonds. This took place at Beziers. I was there
and reading of it in the paper, went to the jail and asked
to see the priest. It was quite evident he had stolen the
bonds.’

‘I don’t believe a word of this,’ Rinaldi said.

‘Just as you like,’ Rocca said. ‘But I am telling it for
our priest here. It is very informative. He is a priest; he
will appreciate it.’

The priest smiled. ‘Go on,’ he said. T am listening.’

‘Of course some of the bonds were not accounted
for but the priest had all of the three per cent, bonds
and several local obligations, I forget exactly what they
were. So I went to the jail, now this is the point of the
story, and I stood outside his cell and I said as though
I were going to confession, “Bless me, father, for you
have sinned.” ’

There was great laughter from everybody.

‘And what did he say?’ asked the priest. Rocca
ignored this and went on to explain the joke to me.
‘You see the point, don’t you?’ It seemed it was a very
funny joke if you understood it properly. They poured
me more wine and I told the story about the English

47

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

private soldier who was placed under the shower-bath.
Then the major told the story of the eleven Czecho-
slovaks and the Hungarian corporal. After some more
wine I told the story of the jockey who found the penny.
The major said there was an Italian story something like
that about the duchess who could not sleep at night.
At this point the priest left and I told the story about
the travelling salesman who arrived at five o’clock in
the morning at Marseilles when the mistral was blowing.
The major said he had heard a report that I could drink.
I denied this. He said it was true and by the corpse of
Bacchus we would test whether it was true or not. Not
Bacchus, I said. Not Bacchus. Yes, Bacchus, he said.
I should drink cup for cup and glass for glass with Bassi
Fillipo Vincenza. Bassi said no that was no test because
he had already drunk twice as much as 1. I said that was
a foul lie and, Bacchus or no Bacchus, Fillipo Vicenza
Bassi or Bassi Fillippo Vicenza had never touched a
drop all evening and what was his name anyway? He
said was my name Frederico Enrico or Enrico Federico?
I said let the best man win, Bacchus barred, and the
major started us with red wine in mugs. Half-way
through the wine I did not want any more. I remem-
bered where I was going.

‘Bassi wins,’ I said. ‘He’s a better man than I am.
I have to go.’

‘He does really,’ said Rinaldi. ‘He has a rendezvous.
I know all about it.’

‘I have to go.’

‘Another night,’ said Bassi. ‘Another night when
you feel stronger.’ Fie slapped me on the shoulder.
There were lighted candles on the table. All the officers
were very happy. ‘Good night, gentlemen,’ I said.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Rinaldi went out with me. We stood outside the
door on the path and he said, ‘You’d better not go up
there drunk.’

T’m not drunk, Rinin. Really.’

‘You’d better chew some coffee.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘I’ll get some, baby. You walk up and down.’ He
came back with a handful of roasted coffee beans.

‘Chew those, baby, and God be with you.’

‘Bacchus,’ I said.

‘I’ll walk down with you,’

‘I’m perfectly all right.’

We walked along together through the town and I
chewed the coffee. At the gate of the driveway that
led up to the British villa, Rinaldi said good night.

‘Good night,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come in?’

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I like the simpler
pleasures.’

‘Thank you for the coffee beans.’

‘Nothing, baby. Nothing.’

I started down the driveway. The outlines of the
cypresses that lined it were sharp and clear. I looked
back and saw Rinaldi standing watching me and waved
to him.

I sat in the reception hall of the villa waiting for
Catherine Barkley to come down. Someone was coming
down the hall-way. I stood up, but it was not Catherine.
It was Miss Ferguson.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Catherine asked me to tell you
she was sorry she couldn’t see you this evening,’

‘I’m so sorry. I hope she’s not ill.’

‘She’s not awfully well,’

‘Will you tell her how sorry I am?’

D 49

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Yes, I will.’

‘Do you think it would be any good to try and see
her to-morrow?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘Good night.’

I went out the door and suddenly I felt lonely and
empty. I had treated seeing Catherine very lightly, I
had gotten somewhat drunk and had nearly forgotten
to come but when I could not see her there I was feeling
lonely and hollow.

CHAPTER 8

The next afternoon we heard there was to be an attack
up the river that night and that we were to take four
cars there. Nobody knew anything about it although
they all spoke with great positiveness and strategical
knowledge. I was riding in the first car and as we passed
the entry to the British hospital I told the driver to stop.
The other cars pulled up. I got out and told the drivers
to go on and that if we had not caught up to them at the
junction of the road to Cormons to wait there. I hurried
up the driveway and inside the reception hall I asked for
Miss Barkley.

‘She’s on duty.’

‘Could I see her just for a moment?’

They sent an orderly to see and she came back with him.

‘I stopped to ask if you were better. They told me
you were on duty, so I asked to see you.’

‘I’m quite well,’ she said, ‘I think the heat knocked me
over yesterday.’

50

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T have to go.’

T’ll just step outside the door a minute.’

‘And you’re all right?’ I asked outside.

‘Yes, darling. Are you coming to-night?’

‘No. I’m leaving now for a show up above Plava.’

‘A show?’

‘I don’t think it’s anjrthing.’

‘And you’ll be back?’

‘To-morrow.’

She was unclasping something from her neck. She
put it in my hand. ‘It’s a Saint Anthony,’ she said.
‘And come to-morrow night.’

‘You’re not a Catholic, are you?’

‘No. But they say a Saint Anthony’s very useful.’

‘I’ll take care of him for you. Good-bye.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘not good-bye.’

‘All right.’

‘Be a good boy and be careful. No, you can’t kiss
me here. You can’t.’

‘All right.’

I looked back and saw her standing on the steps.
She waved and I kissed my hand and held it out. She
waved again and then I was out of the driveway and
climbing up into the seat of the ambulance and we
started. The Saint Anthony was in a little white metal
capsule. I opened the capsule and spilled him out into
my hand.

‘Saint Anthony?’ asked the driver.

‘Yes.’

‘I have one.’ His right hand left the wheel and opened
a button on his tunic and pulled it out from under his
shirt.

‘See?’

51

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

I put my Saint Anthony back in the capsule, spilled
the thin gold chain together and put it all in my breast
pocket.

‘You don’t wear him?’

‘No.’

‘It’s better to wear him. That’s what it’s for.’

‘All right,’ I said. I undid the clasp of the gold cbain
and put it around my neck and clasped it. The saint
hung down on the outside of my uniform and I undid
the throat of my tunic, unbuttoned the shirt collar and
dropped him in under the shirt. I felt him in his metal
box against my chest while we drove. Then I forgot
about him. After I was wounded I never found him.
Someone probably got it at one of the dressing-stations.

We drove fast when we were over the bridge and
soon we saw the dust of the other cars ahead down the
road. The road curved and we saw the three cars look-
ing quite small, the dust rising from the wheels and
going off through the trees. We caught them and passed
them and turned off on a road that climbed up into the
hills. Driving in convoy is not unpleasant if you are
the first car and I settled back in the seat and watched
the country. We were in the foot-hills on the near side
of the river and as the road mounted there were the
high mountains off to the north with snow still on the
tops. I looked back and saw the three cars all climbing,
spaced by the interval of their dust. We passed a long
column of loaded mules, the drivers walking along beside
the mules wearing red fezes. They were bersaglieri.

Beyond the mule train the road was empty and we
climbed through the hills and then went down over the
shoulder of a long hill into a river-valley. There were
trees along both sides of the road and through the right

52

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

line of trees I saw the river, the water clear, fast and
shallow. The river was low and there were stretches
of sand and pebbles with a narrow channel of water
and sometimes the water spread like a sheen over the
pebbly bed. Close to the bank I saw deep pools, the
water blue like the sky. I saw arched stone bridges
over the river where tracks turned off from the road
and we passed stone farmhouses with pear trees can-
delabraed against their south walls and low stone walls
in the fields. The road went up the valley a long way
and then we turned off and commenced to climb into the
hills again. The road climbed steeply going up and back
and forth through chestnut woods to level finally along
a ridge. I could look down through the woods and see,
far below, with the sun on it, the line of the river that
separated the two armies. We went along the rough
new military road that followed the crest of the ridge
and I looked to the north at the two ranges of moun-
tains, green and dark to the snow-line and then white
and lovely in the sun. Then, as the road mounted along
the ridge, I saw a third range of mountains, higher
snow mountains, that looked chalky white and fur-
rowed, with strange planes, and then there were moun-
tains far off beyond all these, that you could hardly tell
if you really saw. Those were all the Austrians’ moun-
tains and we had nothing like them. Ahead there was a
rounded turn-off in the road to the right and looking
down I could see the road dropping through the trees.
There were troops on this road and motor trucks and
mules with mountain-guns and as we went down, keeping
to the side, I could see the river far down below, the
line of ties and rails running along it, the old bridge
where the railway crossed to the other side and across,

53

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

under a hill beyond the river, the broken houses of the
little town that was to be taken.

It was nearly dark when we came down and turned
on to the main road that ran beside the river.

CHAPTER 9

The road was crowded and there were screens of corn
stalk and straw matting on both sides and matting over
the top so that it was like the entrance at a circus or a
native village. We drove slowly in this matting-covered
tunnel and came out on to a bare cleared space where
the railway station had been. The road here was below
the level of the river bank and all along the side of the
sunken road there were holes dug in the bank with
infantry in them. The sun was going down and looking
up along the bank as we drove I saw the Austrian obser-
vation balloons above the hills on the other side dark
against the sunset. We parked the cars beyond a brick-
yard. The ovens and some deep holes had been equipped
as dressing-stations. There were three doctors that I
knew. I talked with the major and learned that when
it should start and our cars should be loaded we would
drive them back along the screened road and up to the
main road along the ridge where there would be a post
and other cars to clear them. He hoped the road would
not jam. It was a one-road show. The road was screened
because it was in sight of the Austrians across the river.
Here at the brickyard we were sheltered from rifle or
machine-gun fire by the river bank. There was one

54

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

smashed bridge across the river. They were going to
put over another bridge when the bombardment started
and some troops were to cross at the shallows up above
at the bend of the river. The major was a little man
with upturned moustaches. He had been in the war
in Libya and wore two wound-stripes. He said that
if the thing went well he would see that I was decorated.
I said I hoped it would go well but that he was too kind.
I asked him if there was a big dugout where the drivers
could stay and he sent a soldier to show me. I went
with him and found the dugout, which was very good.
The drivers were pleased with it and I left them there.
The major asked me to have a drink with him and two
other officers. We drank rum and it was very friendly.
Outside it was getting dark. I asked what time the
attack was to be and they said as soon as it was dark. I
went back to the drivers. They were sitting in the dug-
out talking and when I came in they stopped. I gave
them each a package of cigarettes, Macedonias, loosely
packed cigarettes that spilled tobacco and needed to have
the ends twisted before you smoked them, Manera lit
his lighter and passed it around. The lighter was shaped
like a Fiat radiator, I told them what I had heard.

‘Why didn’t we see the post when we came down?’
Passini asked.

Tt was just beyond where we turned off.’

‘That road will be a dirty mess,’ Manera said.

‘They’ll shell hell out of us.’

‘Probably.’

‘What about eating, lieutenant? We won’t get a chance
to eat after this thing starts.’

‘I’ll go and see now,’ I said.

‘You want us to stay here or can we look around?’

55

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Better stay here.’

I weat back to the major’s dugout and he said the field
kitchen would be along and the drivers could come and
get their stew. He would loan them mess tins if they did
not have them. I said I thought they had them. I went
back and told the drivers I would get them as soon as the
food came. Manera said he hoped it would come before
the bombardment started. They were silent until I went
out. They were all mechanics and hated the war.

I went out to look at the cars and see what was going
on and then came back and sat down in the dugout with
the four drivers. We sat on the ground with our backs
against the wall and smoked. Outside it was nearly dark.
The earth of the dugout was warm and dry and I let my
shoulders back against the wall, sitting on the small of
my back, and relaxed.

‘Who goes to the attack?’ asked Gavuzzi.

‘Bersaglieri.’

‘All bersaglieri?’

‘I think so.’

‘There aren’t enough troops here for a real attack.’

‘It is probably to draw attention from where the real
attack will be.’

‘Do the men know that who attack?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Of course they don’t,’ Manera said. ‘They wouldn’t
attack if they did.’

‘Yes they would,’ Passini said. ‘Bersaglieri are fools.’

‘They are brave and have good discipline,’ I said.

‘They are big through the chest by measurement, and
healthy. But they are still fools.’

‘The granatieri are tall,’ Manera said. This was a
joke. They all laughed.

56

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Were you there, Tenente, when they wouldn't attack
and they shot every tenth man?'

‘No.’

‘It is true. They lined them up afterward and took
every tenth man. Carabinieri shot them.’

‘Carabinieri,’ said Passini and spat on the floor. ‘But
those grenadiers; all over six feet. They wouldn’t attack.’

‘If everybody would not attack the war would be over,’
Manera said.

‘It wasn’t that way with the granatieri. They were
afraid. The officers all came from such good families.’

‘Some of the officers went alone.’

‘A sergeant shot two officers who would not get
out.’

‘Some troops went out,’

‘Those that went out were not lined up when they
took the tenth men.’

‘One of those shot by the carabinieri is from my
town,’ Passini said. ‘He was a big smart tall boy to be
in the granatieri. Always in Rome. Always with the
girls. Always with the carabinieri.’ He laughed. ‘Now
they have a guard outside his house with a bayonet and
nobody can come to see his mother and father and sisters
and his father loses his civil rights and cannot even vote.
They are all without law to protect them. Anybody can
take their property.’

‘If it wasn’t that that happens to their families nobody
would go to the attack.’

‘Yes. Alpini would. These V.E. soldiers would.
Some bersaglieri.’

‘Bersaglieri have run too. Now they try to forget it.’

‘You should not let us talk this way, Tenente. Evviva
I’esercito,’ Passini said sarcastically.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T know how you talk,’ I said. ‘But as long as you
drive the cars and behave — ’

‘ - and don’t talk so other officers can hear,’ Manera
finished.

‘I believe we should get the war over,’ I said. ‘It would
not finish it if one side stopped fighting. It would only
be worse if we stopped fighting.’

‘It could not be worse,’ Passini said respectfully.
‘There is nothing worse than war.’

‘Defeat is worse.’

‘I do not believe it,’ Passini said still respectfully.
‘What is defeat? You go home.’

‘They come after you. They take your home. They
take your sisters.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Passini said. ‘They can’t do that
to everybody. Let everybody defend his home. Let
them keep their sisters in the house.’

‘They hang you. They come and make you be a
soldier again. Not in the auto-ambulance, in the in-
fantry.’

‘They can’t hang every one.’

‘An outside nation can’t make you be a soldier,’ Manera
said. ‘At the first battle you all run.’

‘Like the Tchecos.’

‘I think you do not know an3rthing about being con-
quered and so you think it is not bad.’

‘Tenente,’ Passini said. ‘We understand you let us
talk. Listen. There is nothing as bad as war. We in
the auto-ambulance cannot even realize at all how bad
it is. When people realize how bad it is they cannot do
anything to stop it because they go crazy. There are
some people who never realize. There are people who are
afraid of their officers. It is with them that war is made.’

S8

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T know it is bad but we must finish it.’

Tt doesn’t finish. There is no finish to a war.’

‘Yes there is.’

Passini shook his head.

‘War is not won by victory. What if we take San
Gabriele? What if we take the Carso and Monfalcone
and Trieste? Where are we then? Did you see all the
far mountains to-day? Do you think we could take all
them too? Only if the Austrians stop fighting. One
side must stop fighting. Why don’t we stop fighting?
If they come down into Italy they will get tired and go
away. They have their own country. But no, instead
there is a war.’

‘You’re an orator.’

‘We think. We read. We are not peasants. We are
mechanics. But even the peasants know better than to
believe in a war. Everybody hates this war.’

‘There is a class that controls a country that is stupid
and does not realize anything and never can. That is
why we have this war.’

‘Also they make money out of it.’

‘Most of them don’t,’ said Passini. ‘They are too
stupid. They do it for nothing. For stupidity.’

‘We must shut up,’ said Manera. ‘We talk too much
even for the Tenente.’

‘He likes it,’ said Passini. ‘We will convert him.’

‘But now we will shut up,’ Manera said.

‘Do we eat yet, Tenente?’ Gavuzzi asked.

‘I will go and see,’ I said. Gordini stood up and went
outside with me.

‘Is there anything I can do, Tenente? Can I help in
any way?’ He was the quietest one of the four.

‘Come with me if you want,’ I said, ‘and we’ll see.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

It was dark outside and the long light from the search-
lights was moving over the mountains. There were
big searchlights on that front mounted on camions
that you passed sometimes on the roads at night, close
behind the lines, the camion stopped a little off the
road, an officer directing the light and the crew scared.
We crossed the brickyard, and stopped at the main
dressing-station. There was a little shelter of green
branches outside over the entrance and in the dark the
night wind rustled the leaves dried by the sun. Inside
there was a light. The major was at the telephone sitting
on a box. One of the medical captains said the attack
had been put forward an hour. He offered me a glass
of cognac. I looked at the board tables, the instruments
shining in the light, the basins and the stoppered bottles.
Gordini stood behind me. The major got up from the
telephone.

Tt starts now,’ he said. ‘It has been put back again.’

I looked outside, it was dark and the Austrian search-
lights were moving on the mountains behind us. It was
quiet for a moment still, then from all the guns behind
us the bombardment started.

‘Savoia,’ said the major.

‘About the soup, major,’ I said. He did not hear me.
I repeated it.

‘It hasn’t come up.’

A big shell came in and burst outside in the brick-
yard. Another burst and in the noise you could hear
the smaller noise of the brick and dirt raining down.

‘What is there to eat?’

‘We have a little pasta asciutta,’ the major said.

‘I’ll take what you can give me.’

The major spoke to an orderly who went out of sight

6o

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

in the back and came back with a metal basin of cold
cooked macaroni. I handed it to Gordini,

‘Have you any cheese?’

The major spoke grudgingly to the orderly who ducked
back into the hole again and came out with a quarter
of a white cheese.

‘Thank you very much,’ I said.

‘You’d better not go out.’

Outside something was set down beside the entrance.
One of the two men who had carried it looked in.

‘Bring him in,’ said the major. ‘What’s the matter
with you? Do you want us to come outside and get
him?’

The two stretcher-bearers picked up the man under
the arms and by the legs and brought him in.

‘Slit the tunic,’ the major said.

He held a forceps with some gauze in the end. The
two captains took off their coats. ‘Get out of here,’ the
major said to the two stretcher-bearers.

‘Come on,’ I said to Gordini.

‘You better wait until the shelling is over,’ the major
said over his shoulder.

‘They want to eat,’ I said.

‘As you wish.’

Outside we ran across the brickyard. A shell burst
short near the river bank. Then there was one that we
did not hear coming until the sudden rush. We both
went flat and with the flash and bump of the burst and
the smell heard the singing off of the fragments and the
rattle of falling brick. Gordini got up and ran for the
dugout. I was after him, holding the cheese, its smooth
surface covered with brick dust. Inside the dugout were
the three drivers sitting against the wall, smoking.

6i

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Here, you patriots,’ I said.

‘How are the cars?’ Manera asked.

‘All right.’

‘Did they scare you, Tenente?’

‘You’re damned right,’ I said.

I took out my loiife, opened it, wiped off the blade
and pared off the dirty outside surface of the cheese.
Gavuzzi handed me the basin of macaroni.

‘Start in to eat, Tenente.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Put it on the floor. We’ll all eat.’

‘There are no forks.’

‘What the hell,’ I said in English.

I cut the cheese into pieces and laid them on the
macaroni.

‘Sit down to it,’ I said. They sat down and waited.
I put thumb and fingers into the macaroni and lifted. A
mass loosened,

‘Lift it high, Tenente.’

I lifted it to arm’s length and the strands cleared. I
lowered it into the mouth, sucked and snapped in the
ends, and chewed, then took a bite of cheese, chewed,
and then a drink of the wine. It tasted of rusty metal.
I handed the canteen back to Passini.

‘It’s rotten,’ he said. ‘It’s been in there too long. I
had it in the car.’

They were all eating, holding their chins close over
the basin, tipping their heads back, sucking in the ends.
I took another mouthful and some cheese and a rinse of
wine. Something landed outside that shook the earth.

Four hundred twenty or minnenwerfer,’ Gavuzzi
said.

_ There aren t any four hundred twenties in the moun-
tains,’ I said.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘They have big Skoda guns. I’ve seen the holes.’

‘Three hundred fives.’

We went on eating. There was a cough, a noise like
a railway engine starting and then an explosion that
shook the earth again.

‘This isn’t a deep dugout,’ Passini said.

‘That was a big trench-mortar.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I ate the end of my piece of cheese and took a swallow
of wine. Through the other noise I heard a cough,
then came the chuh-chuh-chuh-chuh - then there was a
flash, as a blast-furnace door is swung open, and a roar
that started white and went red and on and on in a
rushing wind. I tried to breathe but my breath would
not come and I felt myself rush bodily out of myself
and out and out and out and all the time bodily in the
wind. I went out swiftly, all of myself and I knew I
was dead and that it had all been a mistake to think you
just died. Then I floated, and instead of going on I felt
myself slide back. I breathed and I was back. The
ground was torn up and in front of my head there was
a splintered beam of wood. In the jolt of my head I
heard somebody crying. I thought somebody was
screaming. I tried to move but I could not move. I
heard the machine-guns and rifles firing across the river
and all along the river. There was a great splashing and
I saw the star-shells go up and burst and float whitely
and rockets going up and heard the bombs, all this in a
moment, and then I heard close to me someone saying,
‘Mama mia! Oh, mama mia!’ I pulled and twisted
and got my legs loose finally and turned around and
touched him. It was Passini and when I touched him
he screamed. His legs were toward me and I saw in

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

the dark and the light that they were both smashed
above the knee. One leg was gone and the other was
held by tendons and part of the trouser and the stump
twitched and jerked as though it were not connected.
He bit his arm and moaned, ^Oh, mama mia, mama
mia,’ then, ^Dio te salve, Maria. Dio te salve, Maria.
Oh Jesus shoot me Christ shoot me, Mama mia, mama
mia, oh purest lovely Mary shoot me. Stop it. Stop it.
Stop it. Oh Jesus lovely Mary stop it. Oh oh oh oh,’
then choking, ‘Mama mama mia.’ Then he was quiet,
biting his arm, the stump of his leg twitching.

Torta feriti!’ I shouted holding my hands cupped.
‘Porta feriti!’ I tried to get closer to Passini to try to put
a tourniquet on the legs but I could not move. I tried
again and my legs moved a little. I could pull back-
ward along with my arms and elbows. Passini was
quiet now, I sat beside him, undid my tunic and tried
to rip the tail of my shirt. It would not rip and I bit
the edge of the cloth to start it. Then I thought of his
puttees. I had on wool stockings but Passini wore puttees.
All the drivers wore puttees. But Passini had only one
leg. I unwound the puttee and while I was doing it I
saw there was no need to try and make a tourniquet
because he was dead already. I made sure he was dead.
There were three others to locate. I sat up straight and
as I did so something inside my head moved like the
weights on a doll’s eyes and it hit me inside behind my
eyeballs. My legs felt warm and wet and my shoes were
wet and warm inside. I knew that I was hit and leaned
over and put my hand on my knee. My knee wasn’t
there. My hand went in and my knee was down on my
shin. I wiped my hand on my shirt and another floating
light came very slowly down and I looked at my leg and

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

was very afraid. 'Oh, God/ I said, 'get me out of here.'
I knew, however, that there had been three others. There
were four drivers. Passini was dead. That left three.
Someone took hold of me under the arms and somebody
else lifted my legs.

'There are three others/ I said. 'One is dead.'

Tt's Manera. We went for a stretcher but there
wasn’t any. How are you, Tenente?’

'Where are Gordini and Gavuzzi?'

‘Gordini’s at the post getting bandaged. Gavuzzi
has your legs. Hold on to my neck, Tenente. Are you
badly hit?’

‘In the leg. How is Gordini?’

'He’s all right. It was a big trench-mortar shell.’

'Passini’s dead.’

'Yes. He’s dead.’

A shell fell close and they both dropped to the ground
and dropped me. 'I’m sorry, Tenente,’ said Manera.
'Hang on to my neck.’

'If you drop me again.’

'It was because we were scared.’

'Are you unwounded?’

'We are both wounded a little.’

'Can Gordini drive?’

'I don’t think so.’

They dropped me once more before we reached the
post.

'You sons of bitches,’ I said.

'I am sorry, Tenente/ Manera said. ‘We won’t drop
you again.’

Outside the post a great many of us lay on the ground
in the dark. They carried wounded in and brought
them out. I could see the light come out from the dressing-
E 6s

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

station when the curtain opened and they brought some-
one in or out. The dead were off to one side. The
doctors were working with their sleeves up to their
shoulders and were red as butchers. There were not
enough stretchers. Some of the wounded were noisy
but most were quiet. The wind blew the leaves in the
bower over the door of the dressing-station and the night
was getting cold. Stretcher-bearers came in all the
tim e, put their stretchers down, unloaded them and
went away. As soon as I got to the dressing-station
Manera brought a medical sergeant out and he put
bandages on both my legs. He said there was so much
dirt blown into the wound that there had not been much
haemorrhage. They would take me as soon as possible.
He went back inside. Gordini could not drive, Manera
said. His shoulder was smashed and his head was hurt.
He had not felt bad but now the shoulder had stiffened.
He was sitting up beside one of the brick walls. Manera
and Gavuzzi each went off with a load of wounded.
They could drive all right. The British had come with
three ambulances and they had two men on each ambu-
lance. One of their drivers came over to me, brought by
Gordini who looked very white and sick. The Britisher
leaned over.

‘Are you hit badly?’ he asked. He was a tall man and
wore steel-rimmed spectacles.

‘In the legs.’

‘It’s not serious, I hope. Will you have a cigarette?’

‘Thanks.’

‘They tell me you’ve lost two drivers.’

‘Yes. One killed and the fellow that brought you.’

‘What rotten luck. Would you like us to take the
cars?’

66

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘That^s what I wanted to ask you/

‘We’d take quite good care of them and return them
to the Villa. 206, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

Tt’s a charming place. I’ve seen you about. They
tell me you’re an American,’

‘Yes.’

‘Fm English.’

‘No!’

‘Yes, English. Did you think I was Italian? There
were some Italians with one of our units.’

‘It would be fine if you would take the cars,’ I said.

‘We’ll be most careful of them,’ he straightened up.
‘This chap of yours was very anxious for me to see you.’
He patted Gordini on the shoulder. Gordini winced and
smiled. The Englishman broke into voluble and perfect
Italian. ‘Now everything is arranged. I’ve seen your
Tenente. We will take over the two cars. You won’t
worry now.’ He broke off, ‘I must do something about
getting you out of here. I’ll see the medical wallahs.
We’ll take you back with us.’

He walked across to the dressing-station, stepping
carefully among the wounded. I saw the blanket open,
the light came out and he went in.

‘He will look after you, Tenente,’ Gordini said.

‘How are you. Franco?’

‘I am all right.’ He sat down beside me. In a moment
the blanket in front of the dressing-station opened and
two stretcher-bearers came out followed by the tall
Englishman. He brought them over to me.

‘Here is the American Tenente,’ he said in Italian.

‘I’d rather wait,’ I said. ‘There are much worse
wounded than me, I’m all right.’

67

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Come, come,’ he said. ‘Don’t be a bloody hero.’
Then in Italian: ‘Lift him very carefully about the legs.
His legs are very painful. He is the legitimate son of
President Wilson.’ They picked me up and took me into
the dressing-room. Inside they were operating on all the
tables. The little major looked at us furious. Fie recog-
nized me and waved a forceps.

‘Qa va bien?’

‘ga va.’

‘I have brought him in,’ the tall Englishman said in
Italian. ‘The only son of the American Ambassador.
He will be here until you are ready to take him. Then I
shall take him with my first load.’ He bent over me.
‘I’ll look up their adjutant to do your papers and it will
all go much faster.’ He stooped to go under the door-
way and went out. The major was unhooking the for-
ceps now, dropping them in a basin. I followed his hands
with my eyes. Now he was bandaging. Then the stretcher-
bearers took the man off the table.

‘I’ll take the American Tenente,’ one of the captains
said. They lifted me on to the table. It was hard and
slippery. There were many strong smells, chemical
smells and the sweet smell of blood. They took off my
trousers and the medical captain commenced dictating
to the sergeant-adjutant while he w^orked, ‘Multiple
superficial wounds of the left and right thigh and left
and right knee and right foot. Profound wounds of
right knee and foot. Lacerations of the scalp’ - he probed -
(Does that hurt?) (Christ, yes!) ‘with possible fracture of
the skull. Incurred in the line of duty. That’s what
keeps you from being court-martialled for self-inflicted
wounds,’ he said. ‘Would you like a drink of brandy?
How did you run into this thing anyway? What w^ere you

68

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

trying to do? Commit suicide? Anti-tetanus please, and
mark a cross on both legs. Thank you. Vll clean this up
a little, wash it out, and put on a dressing. Your blood
coagulates beautifally.’

The adjutant, looking up from the paper, 'What in-
flicted the wounds?’

The medical captain, 'What hit you?’

Me, with the eyes shut, 'A trench-mortar shell.’

The captain, doing things that hurt sharply and severing
tissue - 'Are you sure?’

Me - trying to lie still and feeling my stomach flutter
when the flesh was cut, 'I think so.’

Captain doctor - (interested in something he was
finding), 'Fragments of enemy trench-mortar shell.
Now I’ll probe for some of this if you like but it’s not
necessary. I’ll paint all this and - Does that sting?
Good, that’s nothing to how it will feel later. The pain
hasn’t started yet. Bring him a glass of brandy. The
shock dulls the pain; but this is all right, you have nothing
to worry’’ about if it doesn’t infect and it rarely does now.
How is your head?’

'It’s very bad,’ I said.

‘Better not drink too much brandy then. If you’ve
got a fracture you don’t want inflammation. How does
that feel?’

Sweat ran all over me.

'Good Christ!’ I said.

'I guess you’ve got a fracture all right. I’ll wrap
you up and don’t bounce your head around.’ He ban-
daged, his hands moving very fast and the bandage coming
taut and sure. 'All right, good luck and Vive la France.’

'He’s an American,’ one of the other captains said.

'I thought you said he was a Frenchman. He talks

69

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

French,’ the captain said. ‘I’ve known him before. I
always thought he was French.’ He drank a half tumbler
of cognac. ‘Bring on something serious. Get some
more of that anti-tetanus.’ The captain waved to me.
They lifted me and the blanket-flap went across my
face as we went out. Outside the sergeant-adjutant
knelt down beside me where I lay, ‘Name?’ he asked
softly. ‘Middle name? First name? Rank? Where
born? What class? What corps?’ and so on. ‘I’m sorry
for your head, Tenente. I hope you feel better. I’m
sending you now with the English ambulance.’

‘I’m all right,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much.’ The
pain that the major had spoken about had started and
all that was happening was without interest or relation.
After a while the English ambulance came up and they
put me on to a stretcher and lifted the stretcher up to
the ambulance level and shoved it in. There was another
stretcher by the side with a man on it whose nose I could
see, waxy-looking, out of the bandages. He breathed
very heavily. There were stretchers lifted and slid into
the slings above. The tall English driver came around
and looked in. ‘I’ll take it very easily,’ he said. ‘I hope
you’ll be comfy.’ I felt the engine start, felt him climb
up into the front seat, felt the brake come off and the
clutch go in, then we started. I lay still and let the pain
ride.

As the ambulance climbed along the road, it was slow
in the traffic, sometimes it stopped, sometimes it backed
on a turn, then finally it climbed quite fast. I felt some-
thing dripping. At first it dropped slowly and regularly,
then it pattered into a stream. I shouted to the driver.
He stopped the car and looked in through the hole behind
his seat.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘What is it?^

‘The man on the stretcher over me has a hemorrhage.’

‘We’re not far from the top. I wouldn’t be able to
get the stretcher out alone.’ He started the car. The
stream kept on. In the dark I could not see where it
came from the canvas overhead. I tried to move side-
ways so that it did not fall on me. Where it had run
down under my shirt it was warm and sticky. I was
cold and my leg hurt so that it made me sick. After a
while the stream from the stretcher above lessened and
started to drip again and I heard and felt the canvas
above move as the man on the stretcher settled more
comfortably.

‘How is he?’ the Englishman called back. ‘We’re
almost up.’

‘He’s dead I think,’ I said.

The drops fell very slowly, as they fall from an icicle
after the sun has gone. It was cold in the car in the
night as the road climbed. At the post on the top they
took the stretcher out and put another in and we went on.

CHAPTER lo

In the ward at the field hospital they told me a visitor
was coming to see me in the afternoon. It was a hot
day and there were many flies in the room. My orderly
had cut paper into strips and tied the strips to a stick to
make a brush that swished the flies away. I watched
them settle on the ceiling. When he stopped swishing
and fell asleep they came down and I blew them away

71

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

and finally covered my face with my hands and slept
too. It was very hot and when I woke my legs itched.
I waked the orderly and he poured mineral water on the
dressings. That made the bed damp and cool. Those of
us that were awake talked across the ward. The after-
noon was a quiet time. In the morning they came to
each bed in turn, three men nurses and a doctor and
picked you up out of bed and carried you into the
dressing-room so that the beds could be made while
we were having our wounds dressed. It was not a
pleasant trip to the dressing-room and I did not know
until later that beds could be made with men in them.
My orderly had finished pouring water and the bed felt
cool and lovely and I was telling him where to scratch
on the soles of my feet against the itching when one
of the doctors brought in Rinaldi. He came in very fast
and bent down over the bed and kissed me. I saw he
wore gloves.

‘How are you, baby? How do you feel? I bring you
this - ’ It was a bottle of cognac. The orderly brought
a chair and he sat down, ‘and good news. You will be
decorated. They want to get you the medaglia d’argento
but perhaps they can get only the bronze.’

‘What for?’

‘Because you are gravely wounded. They say if you
can prove you did any heroic act you can get the silver.
Otherwise it will be the bronze. Tell me exactly what
happened. Did you do any heroic act?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I was blown up while we were eating
cheese.’

‘Be serious. You must have done something heroic
either before or after. Remember carefully.’

‘I did not.’

72

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Didn’t you carry anybody on your back? Gordini
says you carried several people on your back but the
medical major at the first post declares it is impossible.
He has to sign the proposition for the citation.’

T didn’t carry anybody. I couldn’t move.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Rinaldi.

He took off his gloves.

T think we can get you the silver. Didn’t you refuse
to be medically aided before the others?’

‘Not very firmly.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Look how you are wounded.
Look at your valorous conduct in asking to go always
to the first line. Besides, the operation was successful.’

‘Did they cross the river all right?’

‘Enormously. They take nearly a thousand prisoners.
It’s in the bulletin. Didn’t you see it?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll bring it to you. It is a successful coup de main.’

‘How is everj^hing?’

‘Splendid. We are all splendid. Everybody is proud
of you. Tell me just exactly how it happened. I am
positive you will get the silver. Go on tell me. Tell me
all about it.’ He paused and thought. ‘Maybe you will
get an English medal too. There was an English there.
I’ll go and see him and ask if he will recommend you.
He ought to be able to do something. Do you suffer
much? Have a drink. Orderly, go get a corkscrew.
Oh you should see what I did in the removal of three
metres of small intestine and better now than ever. It
is one for The Lancet. You do me a translation and I
will send it to The Lancet. Every day I am better. Poor
dear baby, how do you feel? Where is that damn cork-
screw? You are so brave and quiet I forget you are

73

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

suffering.’ He slapped his gloves on the edge of the
bed.

‘Here is the corkscrew, Signor Tenente,’ the orderly
said.

‘Open the bottle. Bring a glass. Drink that, baby.
How is your poor head? I looked at your papers. You
haven’t any fracture. That major at the first post was
a hog-butcher. I would take you and never hurt you.
I never hurt anybody. I learn how to do it. Every day
I learn to do things smoother and better. You must
forgive me for talking so much, baby. I am very moved
to see you badly wounded. There, drink that. It’s
good. It cost fifteen lire. It ought to be good. Five
stars. After I leave here I’ll go see that English and
he’ll get you an English medal.’

‘They don’t give them like that.’

‘You are so modest. I will send the liaison officer.
He can handle the English.’

‘Have you seen Miss Barkley?’

‘I will bring her here. I will go now and bring her here.’

‘Don’t go,’ I said. ‘Tell me about Gorizia. How are
the girls?’

‘There are no girls. For two weeks now they haven’t
changed them. I don’t go there any more. It is dis-
graceful. They aren’t girls; they are old war comrades.’

‘You don’t go at all?’

‘I just go to see if there is anything new. I stop by.
They all ask for you. It is a disgrace that they should
stay so long that they become friends.’

‘Maybe girls don’t want to go to the front any more.’

‘Of course they do. They have plenty of girls. It is
just bad administration. They are keeping them for the
pleasure of dugout hiders in the rear.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Poor Rinaldi,’ I said. ‘All alone at the war with no
new girls.’

Rinaldi poured himself another glass of the cognac.

‘I don’t think it will hurt you, baby. You take it.’

I drank the cognac and felt it warm all the way down.
Rinaldi poured another glass. He was quieter now.
He held up the glass. ‘To your valorous wounds. To
the silver medal. Tell me, baby, when you lie here all
the time in the hot weather don’t you get excited?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I can’t imagine lying like that. I would go crazy.’

‘You are crazy.’

‘I wish you were back. No one to come in at night
from adventures. No one to make fun of. No one to
lend me money. No blood brother and room mate.
Why do you get yourself wounded?’

‘You can make fun of the priest.’

‘That priest. It isn’t me that makes fun of him. It is
the captain. I like him. If you must have a priest have
that priest. He’s coming to see you. He makes big
preparations.’

‘I like him.’

‘Oh, I knew it. Sometimes I think you and he are
a little that way. You know.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Yes, I do sometimes. A little that way like the number
of the first regiment of the Brigata Ancona.’

‘Oh, go to hell.’

He stood up and put on his gloves.

‘Oh, I love to tease you, baby. With your priest and
your English girl, and really you are just like me under-
neath.’

‘No, I’m not.’

75

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Yes, we are. You are really an Italian. All fire and
smoke and nothing inside. You only pretend to be
American. We are brothers and we love each other.’

‘Be good while I’m gone,’ I said.

T will send Miss Barkley. You are better with her
without me. You are purer and sweeter.’

‘Oh, go to hell.’

‘I will send her. Your lovely cool goddess. English
goddess. My God, what would a man do with a woman
like that except worship her? What else is an English-
woman good for?’

‘You are an ignorant foul-mouthed dago.’

‘A what?’

‘An ignorant wop.’

‘Wop. You are a frozen-faced . . . w’op.’

‘You are ignorant. Stupid.’ I saw that word pricked
him and kept on. ‘Uninformed. Inexperienced, stupid
from inexperience.’

‘Truly? I tell you something about your good women.
Your goddesses. There is only one difference between
taking a girl w^ho has always been good and a woman.
With a girl it is painful. That’s all I know.’ He slapped
the bed with his glove. ‘And you never know if the girl
will really like it.’

‘Don’t get angry.’

‘I’m not angry. I just tell you, baby, for your own
good. To save you trouble.’

‘That’s the only difference?’

‘Yes. But millions of fools like you don’t know it.’

‘You were sweet to tell me.’

‘We won’t quarrel, baby. I love you too much. But
don’t be a fool.’

‘No. I’ll be wise like you.’

76

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Don’t be ^ngry, baby. Laugh. Take a drink. I
must go, really.’

'You’re a good old boy.’

'Now you see. Underneath we are the same. We
are war brothers. Kiss me good-bye.’

'You’re sloppy.’

'No. I am just more affectionate.’

I felt his breath come toward me. 'Good-bye. I
come to see you again soon.’ His breath went away.
'I won’t kiss you if you don’t want. I’ll send your English
girl. Good-bye, baby. The cognac is under the bed.
Get well soon.’

He was gone.

CHAPTER II

It was dusk when the priest came. They had brought
the soup and afterward taken away the bowls and I was
lying looking at the rows of beds and out the window
at the tree-top that moved a little in the evening breeze.
The breeze came in through the window and it was
cooler with the evening. The flies were on the ceiling
now and on the electric light bulbs that hung on wires.
The lights were only turned on when someone was
brought in at night or when something was being done.
It made me feel very young to have the dark come after
the dusk and then remain. It was like being put to bed
after early supper. The orderly came down between the
beds and stopped. Someone was with him. It was the
priest. He stood there small, brown-faced, and em-
barrassed.

77

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘How do you do?’ he asked. He put some packages
down by the bed, on the floor.

‘All right, father.’

He sat down in the chair that had been brought for
Rinaldi and looked out of the window embarrassedly.
I noticed his face looked very tired.

‘I can only stay a minute,’ he said. ‘It is late.’

‘It’s not late. How is the mess?’

He smiled. ‘I am still a great joke.’ He sounded tired
too. ‘Thank God they are all well.’

‘I am so glad you are all right,’ he said. ‘I hope you
don’t suffer.’ He seemed very tired and I was not used
to see him tired.

‘Not any more.’

‘I miss you at the mess.’

‘I wish I were there. I always enjoyed our talking.’

‘I brought you a few little things,’ he said. He picked
up the packages. ‘This is mosquito netting. This is a
bottle of vermouth. You like vermouth? These are
English papers.’

‘Please open them.’

He was pleased and undid them. I held the mosquito
netting in my hands. The vermouth he held up for me
to see and then put it on the floor beside the bed. I
held up one of the sheaf of English papers. I could
read the headlines by turning it so the half-light from
the window was on it. It was The News of the World.

‘The others are illustrated,’ he said.

‘It will be a great happiness to read them. Where
did you get them?’

‘I sent for them to Mestre. I will have more.’

‘You were very good to come, father. Will you drink
a glass of vermouth?’

78

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Thank you. You keep it. It’s for you.’

'No, drink a glass,’

'All right. I will bring you more then.’

The orderly brought the glasses and opened the bottle.
He broke off the cork and the end had to be shoved down
into the bottle. I could see the priest was disappointed
but he said, 'That’s all right. It’s no matter.’

'Here’s to your health, father.’

‘To your better health.’

Afterward he held the glass in his hand and we looked
at one another. Sometimes we talked and were good
friends but to-night it was difficult.

'What’s the matter, father? You seem very tired.’

'I am tired but I have no right to be.’

'It’s the heat.’

'No. This is only the spring. I feel very low.’

‘You have the war disgust.’

‘No. But I hate the war.’

'I don’t enjoy it,’ I said. He shook his head and looked
out of the window.

‘You do not mind it. You do not see it. You must
forgive me. I know you are wounded.’

'That is an accident.’

‘Still even wounded you do not see it. I can tell. I do
not see it myself, but I feel it a little.’

'When I was wounded we were talking about it.
Passini was talking.’

The priest put down the glass. He was thinking about
something else.

T know them because I am like they are,’ he said.

‘You are different, though.’

‘But really I am like they are.’

'The officers don’t see anything.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Some of them do. Some are very delicate and feel
worse than any of us.’

‘They are mostly different.’

‘It is not education or money. It is something else.
Even if they had education or money men like Passini
would not wish to be officers. I would not be an officer.’

‘You rank as an officer. I am an officer.’

‘I am not really. You are not even an Italian. You
are a foreigner. But you are nearer the officers than
you are to the men.’

‘What is the difference?’

‘I cannot say it easily. There are people who would
make war. In this country there are many like that.
There are other people who would not make war.’

‘But the first ones make them do it.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I help them.’

‘You are a foreigner. You are a patriot.’

‘ And the ones who would not make war? Can they
stop it?’

‘I do not know.’

He looked out of the window again. I watched his face.

‘Have they ever been able to stop it?’

‘They are not organized to stop things and when
they get organized their leaders sell them out.’

‘Then it’s hopeless?’

‘It is never hopeless. But sometimes I cannot hope.
I try always to hope, but sometimes I cannot.’

‘Maybe the war will be over.’

‘I hope so.’

‘What will you do then?’

‘If it is possible I will return to the Abruzzi.’

His brown face was suddenly very happy.

8o

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'You love the Abruzzi!’

‘Yes, I love it very much.’

‘You ought to go there then.’

‘I would be too happy. If I could live there and love
God and serve Him.’

‘And be respected,’ I said.

‘Yes and be respected. Why not?’

‘No reason not. You should be respected.’

‘It does not matter. But there in my country it is under-
stood that a man may love God. It is not a dirty joke.’

‘I understand,’

He looked at me and smiled.

‘You understand, but you do not love God.’

‘No.’

‘You do not love Him at all?’ he asked.

‘I am afraid of Him in the night sometimes.’

‘You should love Him.’

‘I don’t love much.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You do. WTiat you tell me about
in the nights. That is not love. That is only passion
and lust. When you love you wish to do things for.
You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve.’

‘I don’t love.’

‘You will. I know you will. Then you will be happy.’

‘I’m happy. I’ve always been happy.’

‘It is another thing. You cannot know about it unless
you have it.’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘If I ever get it I will tell you.’

‘I stay too long and talk too much.’ He was worried
that he really did.

‘No. Don’t go. How about loving women? If I really
loved some woman, would it be like that?’

‘I don’t know about that. I never loved any woman.’

F 8i

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘What about your mother?’

‘Yes, I must have loved my mother.’

‘Did you always love God?’

‘Ever since I was a little boy.’

‘Well,’ I said. I did not know what to say. ‘You are
a fine boy,’ I said.

‘I am a boy,’ he said. ‘But you call me father.’

‘That’s politeness.’

He smiled.

‘I must go, really,’ he said. ‘You do not want me for
anything?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No. Just to talk.’

‘I will take your greetings to the mess.’

‘Thank you for the many fine presents.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Come and see me again.’

‘Yes. Good-bye,’ he patted my hand.

‘So long,’ I said in dialect.

‘Ciaou,’ he repeated.

It was dark in the room and the orderly, who had sat
by the foot of the bed, got up and went out with him.
I liked him very much and I hoped he would get back
to the Abruzzi some time. He had a rotten life in the
mess and he was fine about it, but I thought how he
would be in his own country. At Capracotta, he had
told me, there were trout in the stream below the town.
It was forbidden to play the flute at night. When the
young men serenaded only the flute was forbidden.
Why, I had asked. Because it was bad for the girls to
hear the flute at night. The peasants all called you ‘Don’
and when you met them they took off their hats. His
father hunted every day and stopped to eat at the houses
of peasants. They were always honoured. For a foreigner

82

A FAREWELL TO AR:\IS

to hunt he must present a certificate that he had never
been arrested. There were bears on the Gran Sasso
DTtalia, but it was a long way. Aquila was a fine town.
It was cool in the summer at night and the spring in
Abruzzi was the most beautiful in Italy. But what was
lovely was the fall to go hunting through the chestnut
woods. The birds were all good because they fed on
grapes and you never took a lunch because the peasants
were always honoured if you W'Ould eat with them at
their houses. After a while I went to sleep.

CHAPTER 13

The room was long with window^s on the right-hand
side and a door at the far end that w^ent into the dressing-
room. The row of beds that mine was in faced the
windows and another row, under the windows, faced
the wall. If you lay on your left side you could see the
dressing-room door. There was another door at the far
end that people sometimes came in by. If anyone were
going to die they put a screen around the bed so you
could not see them die, but only the shoes and puttees
of doctors and men nurses showed under the bottom of
the screen and sometimes at the end there would be
whispering. Then the priest would come out from
behind the screen and afterward the men nurses w^ould
go back behind the screen to come out again carrying the
one who was dead with a blanket over him down the
corridor between the beds and someone folded the
screen and took it away.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

That morning the major in charge of the ward asked
me if I felt that I could travel the next day. I said I
could. He said then they would ship me out early in
the morning. He said I would be better off making the
trip now before it got too hot.

When they lifted you up out of bed to carry you into
the dressing-room you could look out of the window
and see the new graves in the garden. A soldier sat out-
side the door that opened on to the garden, making
crosses and painting on them the names, rank, and regi-
ment of the men who were buried in the garden. He
also ran errands for the ward, and in his spare time made
me a cigarette-lighter out of an empty Austrian rifle-
cartridge. The doctors were very nice and seemed
very capable. They were anxious to ship me to Milan,
where there were better X-ray facilities and where,
after the operation, I could take mechanico-therapy. I
wanted to go to Milan too. They wanted to get us all
out and back as far as possible because all the beds were
needed for the offensive, when it should start.

The night before I left the field hospital Rinaldi came
in to see me with the major from our mess. They said
that I would go to an American hospital in Milan that
had just been installed. Some American ambulance
units were to be sent down, and this hospital would look
after them and any other Americans on service in Italy.
There were many in the Red Cross. The States had
declared war on Germany, but not on Austria.

The Italians were sure America would declare war on
Austria too, and they were very excited about any
Americans coming down, even the Red Cross. They
asked me if I thought President Wilson would declare
war on Austria and I said it was only a matter of days.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

I did not lonow what we had against Austria, but it
seemed logical that they should declare war on her if
they did on Germany. They asked me if we would
declare war on Turkey. I said that was doubtful. Turkey,
I said, w'as our national bird, but the joke translated
so badly and they were so puzzled and suspicious that
I said yes, w^e wmuld probably declare war on Turkey.
And on Bulgaria? We had drunk several glasses of
brandy and I said yes by God on Bulgaria too and on
Japan. But, they said, Japan is an ally of England.
You can’t trust the bloody English. The Japanese want
Hawaii, I said. Where is Hawaii? It is in the Pacific
Ocean. Why do the Japanese w^ant it? They don’t really
w^ant it, I said. That is all talk. The Japanese are a
w’onderful little people, fond of dancing and light wines.
Like the French, said the major. We will get Nice and
Savoia from the French. We will get Corsica and all
the Adriatic coast-line, Rinaldi said. Italy will return
to the splendours of Rome, said the major. I don’t like
Rome, I said. It is hot and full of fleas. You don’t
like Rome? Yes, I love Rome. Rome is the mother of
nations. I will never forget Romulus suckling the Tiber.
What? Nothing. Let’s all go to Rome. Let’s go to
Rome to-night and never come back. Rome is a beautiful
city, said the major. The mother and father of nations,
I said. Roma is feminine, said Rinaldi. It cannot be
the father. Who is the father, then, the Holy Ghost?
Don’t blaspheme. I wasn’t blaspheming, I was asking
for information. You are drunk, baby. Who made me
drunk? I made you drunk, said the major. I made you
drunk because I love you and because America is in the
war. Up to the hilt, I said. You go away in the morning,
baby, Rinaldi said. To Rome, I said. No, to Milan.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

To Milan, said the Major, to the Crystal Palace, to the
Cova, to Campari’s, to Biffi’s, to the galleria. You lucky
boy. To the Gran Italia, I said, where I will borrow
money from George. To the Scala, said Rinaldi. You
will go to the Scala. Every night, I said. You won’t be
able to afford it every night, said the major.

The tickets are very expensive. I will draw a sight
draft on my grandfather, I said. A what? A sight draft.
He has to pay or I go to jail. Mr. Cunningham at the
bank does it. I live by sight drafts. Can a grandfather
jail a patriotic grandson who is dying that Italy may
live? Live the American Garibaldi, said Rinaldi. Ewiva
the sight drafts, I said. We must be quiet, said the major.
Already we have been asked many times to be quiet.
Do you go to-morrow really, Federico? He goes to the
American hospital, I tell you, Rinaldi said. To the
beautiful nurses. Not the nurses with beards of the
field hospital. Yes, yes, said the major, I know he goes
to the American hospital. I don’t mind their beards,
I said. If any man wants to raise a beard, let him. Why
don’t you raise a beard. Signor Maggiore? It could not
go in a gas-mask. Yes, it could. An3^hing can go in a
gas-mask. I’ve vomited into a gas-mask. Don’t be so
loud, baby, Rinaldi said. We all know you have been at
the front. Oh, you fine baby, what will I do while you
are gone? We must go, said the major. This becomes
sentimental. Listen, I have a surprise for you. Your
English. You know? The English you go to see every
night at their hospital? She is going to Milan too. She
goes with another to be at the American hospital. They
had not got nurses yet from America. I talked to-day
with the head of their riparto. They have too many
women here at the front. They send some back. How

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

do you like that, baby? All right. Yes? You go to live
in a big city and have your English there to cuddle you.
Why don't I get wounded? Maybe you will, I said.
We must go, said the major. We drink and make noise
and disturb Federico. Don’t go. Yes, we must go.
Good-bye. Good luck. Many things. Ciaou. Ciaou.
Ciaou. Come back quickly, baby. Rinaldi kissed me.
You smell of lysol. Good-bye, baby. Good-bye. Many
things. The major patted my shoulder. They tiptoed
out. I found I was quite drunk, but went to sleep.

The next day in the morning we left for Milan and
arrived forty-eight hours later. It was a bad trip. We
were side-tracked for a long time this side of Mestre and
children came and peeked in. I got a little boy to go for
a bottle of cognac, but he came back and said he could
only get grappa. I told him to get it, and w^hen it came
I gave him the change, and the man beside me and I got
drunk and slept until past Vicenza, where I woke up and
was very sick on the floor. It did not matter, because the
man on that side had been very sick on the floor several
times before. Afterward I thought I could not stand the
thirst and in the yards outside of Verona I called to a
soldier who v^as walking up and dowm beside the train
and he got me a drink of water. I woke Georgetti, the
other boy who was drunk, and offered him some water.
He said to pour it on his shoulder and went back to
sleep. The soldier would not take the penny I offered
him and brought me a pulpy orange. I sucked on that
and spat out the pith and watched the soldier pass up
and down past a freight-car outside and after a while
the train gave a jerk and started.

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BOOK II

CHAPTER 13

We got into Milan early in the morning and they un-
loaded us in the freight-yard. Aji ambulance took me to
the American hospital. Riding in the ambulance on a
stretcher I could not tell what part of the town w^e
were passing through, but when they unloaded ^^the
stretcher I saw a market-place and an open wine shop
with a girl sweeping out. They were watering the street
and it smelled of the early morning. They put the
stretcher down and went in. The porter came out with
them. He had grey moustaches, wore a doorman’s cap
and was in his shirt-sleeves. The stretcher would not go
into the elevator and they discussed w^hether it was
better to lift me oif the stretcher and go up in the elevator
or carry the stretcher up the stairs. I listened to them
discussing it. They decided on the elevator. They lifted
me from the stretcher. ‘Go easy/ I said. ‘Take it softly.’

In the elevator we were crow^ded and as my legs bent
the pain was very bad. ‘Straighten out the legs,’ I
said.

‘We can’t, Signor Tenente. There isn’t room.’ The
man who said this had his arm around me and my arm
was around his neck. His breath came in my face metallic
with garlic and red wine.

‘Be gentle,’ the other man said.

‘Son of a bitch who isn’t gentle.’

‘Be gentle, I say,’ the man with my feet repeated.

1 saw the doors of the elevator closed, and the grille

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

shut and the fourth-floor button pushed by the porter.
The porter looked worried. The elevator rose slowly.

‘Heavy?’ I asked the man with the garlic.

‘Nothing,’ he said. His face was sweating and he
grunted. The elevator rose steadily and stopped. The
man holding the feet opened the door and stepped out.
We were on a balcony. There were several doors with
brass knobs. The man carrying the feet pushed a button
that rang a bell. We heard it inside the doors. No one
came. Then the porter came up the stairs.

‘Where are they?’ the stretcher-bearers asked.

T don’t know,’ said the porter, ‘They sleep downstairs.’

‘Get somebody.’

The porter rang the bell, then knocked on the door,
then he opened the door and went in. When he came
back there was an elderly woman wearing glasses with
him. Her hair was loose and half-falling, and she wore a
nurse’s dress.

T can’t understand,’ she said. T can’t understand
Italian.’

T can speak English,’ I said. ‘They want to put me
somewhere.’

‘None of the rooms are ready. There isn’t any patient
expected.’ She tucked at her hair and looked at me near-
sightedly.

‘Show them any room where they can put me.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘There’s no patient expected.
I couldn’t put you in just any room.’

‘Any room will do,’ I said. Then to the porter in
Italian, ‘Find an empty room.’

‘They are all empty,’ said the porter. ‘You are the
first patient.’ He held his cap in his hand and looked at
the elderly nurse.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘For Christ’s sweet sake take me to some room.’ The
pain had gone on and on with the legs bent, and I could
feel it going in and out of the bone. The porter went
in the door, followed by the grey-haired woman, then
came hurrying back. ‘Follow me,’ he said. They carried
me down a long hallway and into a room with drawn
blinds. It smelled of new furniture. There was a bed
and a big wardrobe with a mirror. They laid me down
on the bed.

T can’t put on sheets,’ the wmman said. ‘The sheets
are locked up.’

I did not speak to her. ‘There is money in my pocket,’
I said to the porter. ‘In the buttoned-down pocket.’
The porter took out the money. The two stretcher-bearers
stood beside the bed holding their caps. ‘Give them
five lire apiece and five lire for yourself. My papers
are in the other pocket. You may give them to the nurse.’

The stretcher-bearers saluted and said thank you.
‘Good-bye,’ I said. ‘And many thanks.’ They saluted
again and went out.

‘Those papers,’ I said to the nurse, ‘describe my case
and the treatment already given.’

The woman picked them up and looked at them
through her glasses. There were three papers and they
were folded. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘I
can’t read Italian. I can’t do anything without the
doctor’s orders.’ She commenced to cry and put the
papers in her apron pocket. ‘Are you an American?’ she
asked crying.

‘Yes. Please put the papers on the table by the bed.’

It was dim and cool in the room. As I lay on the
bed I could see the big mirror on the other side of the
room, but could not see what it reflected. The porter

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

stood by the bed. He had a nice face and was very
kind.

‘You can go,’ I said to him. ‘You can go too,’ I said
to the nurse. ‘What is your name?’

‘Mrs. Walker.’

‘You can go, Mrs. Walker. I think I will go to sleep.’

I was alone in the room. It was cool and did not smell
like a hospital. The mattress was firm and comfortable,
and I lay without moving, hardly breathing, happy in
feeling the pain lessen. After a while I wanted a drink
of water and found the bell on a cord by the bed and
rang it, but nobody came. I went to sleep.

When I woke I looked around. There was sunlight
coming in through the shutters. I saw the big armoire,
the bare walls, and two chairs. My legs in the dirty
bandages stuck straight out in the bed. I was careful not
to move them. I was thirsty and I reached for the bell
and pushed the button. I heard the door open and looked
and it was a nurse. She looked young and pretty.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

‘Good morning,’ she said and came over to the bed.
‘We haven’t been able to get the doctor. He’s gone to
Lake Como. No one knew there was a patient coming.
What’s wrong with you, anyway?’

‘I’m wounded. In the legs and feet and my head is
hurt.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Henry. Frederic Henry.’

‘I’ll wash you up. But we can’t do anything to the
dressings until the doctor comes.’

‘Is Miss Barkley here?’

‘No. There’s no one by that name here.’

‘Who was the woman who cried when I came in?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

The nurse laughed. ‘That’s Airs. W'alker. She was
on night-duty and she’d been asleep. She wasn’t expecting
anyone.’

'While we were talking she was undressing me^ and
when I was undressed, except for the bandages, she
washed me, very gently and smoothly. The washing
felt very good. There was a bandage on my head, but
she w^ashed all around the edge.

‘Where w’ere you wounded?’

‘On the Isonzo, north of Plava.’

‘Where is that?’

‘North of Gorizia.’

I could see that none of the places meant anything
to her.

‘Do you have a lot of pain?’

‘No. Not much now.’

She put a thermometer in my mouth.

‘The Italians put it under the arm,’ I said.

‘Don’t talk.’

When she took the thermometer out she read it and
then shook it.

‘What’s the temperature?’

‘You’re not supposed to know^ that.’

‘Tell me what it is.’

‘It’s almost normal.’

‘I never have any fever. My legs are full of old iron
too.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’re full of trench-mortar fragments, old screws
and bed-springs and things.’

She shook her head and smiled.

‘If you had any foreign bodies in your legs they would
set up an inflammation and you’d have fever.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

^Ali right/ I said. 'Well see what comes out.’

She went out of the room and came back with the
old nurse of the early morning. Together they made the
bed with me in it. That was new to me and an admirable
proceeding.

‘Who is in charge here?’

‘Miss Van Campen.’

‘How many nurses are there?’

‘Just us two.’

‘Won’t there be more?’

‘Some more are coming.’

‘When will they get here?’

‘I don’t know. You ask a great many questions for a
sick boy.’

‘I’m not sick,’ I said, ‘I’m wounded.’

They had finished making the bed and I lay with a
clean smooth sheet under me and another sheet over
me. Mrs. Walker went out and came back with a pyjama
jacket. They put that on me and I felt very clean and
dressed.

‘You’re awfully nice to me,’ I said. The nurse called
Miss Gage giggled. ‘Could I have a drink of water?’ I
asked.

‘Certainly, Then you can have breakfast.’

‘I don’t want breakfast. Can I have the shutters
opened, please?’

The light had been dim in the room and when the
shutters were opened it was bright sunlight and I looked
out on a balcony and beyond were the tiled roofs of houses
and chimneys. I looked out over the tiled roofs and saw
white clouds and the sky very blue.

‘Don’t you know when the other nurses are coming?’

‘Why? Don’t we take good care of you?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘You’re very nice.’

‘Would you like to use the bedpan?’

‘I might trj-.’

They helped me and held me up, but it was not any
use. Afterward I lay and looked out the open doors on to
the balcony.

‘When does the doctor come?’

‘When he gets back. We’ve tried to telephone to
Lake Como for him.’

‘Aren’t there any other doctors?’

‘He’s the doctor for the hospital.’

Miss Gage brought a pitcher of water and a glass. I
drank three glasses and then they left me and I looked
out the window a while and went back to sleep. I ate
some lunch and in the afternoon Miss Van Campen,
the superintendent, came up to see me. She did not
like me and I did not like her. She was small and neatly
suspicious and too good for her position. She asked
many questions and seemed to think it was somewhat
disgraceful that I was with the Italians.

‘Can I have wine with the meals?’ I asked her.

‘Only if the doctor prescribes it.’

‘I can’t have it until he comes?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘You plan on having him come eventually?’

‘We’ve telephoned him at Lake Como.’

She went out and Miss Gage came back.

‘Why were you rude to Miss Van Campen?’ she asked
after she had done something for me very skilfully.

‘I didn’t mean to be. But she was snooty.’

‘She said you were domineering and rude.’

‘I wasn’t. But what’s the idea of a hospital without a
doctor?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘He’s coming. They’ve telephoned for him to Lake
Como.’

‘What does he do there? Swim?’

‘No. He has a clinic there.’

‘Why don’t they get another doctor?’

‘Hush! Hush! Be a good boy and he’ll come.’

I sent for the porter and when he came I told him in
Italian to get me a bottle of Cinzano at the wine shop,
a fiasco of chianti and the evening papers. He went
away and brought them wrapped in newspaper, un-
wrapped them, and then I asked him to draw the corks
and put the wine and vermouth under the bed. They
left me alone and I lay in bed and read the papers a while,
the news from the front, and the list of dead officers
with their decorations and then reached down and
brought up the bottle of Cinzano and held it straight
up on my stomach, the cool glass against my stomach,
and took little drinks, making rings on my stomach
from holding the bottle there between drinks, and
watched it get dark outside over the roofs of the town.
The swallows circled around and I watched them and
the night hawks flying above the roofs and drank the
Cinzano. Miss Gage brought up a glass with some egg
nog in it. I lowered the vermouth bottle to the other
side of the bed when she came in.

‘Miss Van Campen had some sherry put in this,’
she said. ‘You shouldn’t be rude to her. She’s not
young and this hospital is a big responsibility for her.
Mrs. Walker’s too old and she’s no use to her.’

She s a splendid woman,’ I said. ‘Thank her very
much.’

I m going to bring your supper right away.’

That s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m not hungry.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

WThen she brought the tray and put it on the bed-
table I thanked her and ate a little of the supper. After-
ward it was dark outside and I could see the beams of
the searchlights moving in the sky. I watched for a
while and then went to sleep. I slept heavily, except
once I woke sweating and scared and then went back
to sleep, trying to stay outside of my dream. I woke
for good long before it was light and heard roosters
crowing, and stayed on awake until it began to be light.
I was tired and once it was really light I went back to
sleep again.

CHAPTER 14

It was bright sunlight in the room when I woke. I
thought I was back at the front and stretched out in
bed. My legs hurt me and I looked down at them, still
in the dirty bandages, and seeing them knew where I
w’as. I reached up for the bell-cord and pushed the
button. I heard it buzz down the hall and then some-
one coming on rubber soles along the hall. It was Miss
Gage and she looked a little older in the bright sunlight
and not so pretty.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Did you have a good
night?’

‘Yes, thanks, very much,’ I said. ‘Can I have a
barber?’

‘I came in to see you and you were asleep with this
in the bed with you.’

She opened the armoire door and held up the ver-
mouth bottle. It was nearly empty. ‘I put the other

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

bottle from under the bed in there too,’ she said. ‘Why
didn’t you ask me for a glass?’

‘I thought maybe you wouldn’t let me have it.’

‘I’d have had some with you.’

‘You’re a fine girl.’

‘It isn’t good for you to drink alone,’ she said. ‘You
mustn’t do it.’

‘All right.’

‘Your friend Miss Barkley’s come,’ she said.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I don’t like her.’

‘You will like her. She’s awfully nice.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. Can you
move just a little to this side? That’s fine. I’ll clean
you up for breakfast.’ She washed me with a cloth and
soap and warm water. ‘Hold your shoulder up,’ she said
‘That’s fine.’

‘Can I have the barber before breakfast?’

‘I’ll send the porter for him.’ She went out and came
back. ‘He’s gone for him,’ she said and dipped the
cloth she held in the basin of water.

The barber came with the porter. He was a man of
about fifty, with an upturned moustache. Miss Gage
was finished with me and went out, and the barber
lathered my face and shaved. He was very solemn and
refrained from talking. '

‘What’s the matter? Don’t you know any news?’ I asked.

‘What news?’

‘Any news. What’s happened in the town?’

It is time of war,’ he said. ‘The enemy’s ears are
everywhere.’

I looked up at him. ‘Please hold your face still,’ he
said and went on shaving. ‘I will tell nothing.’

lOO

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'What's the matter with you?’ I asked.

T am an Italian. I will not communicate with the
enemy.’

I let it go at that. If he was crazy, the sooner I could
get out from under the razor the better. Once I tried
to get a good look at him, 'Beware,’ he said. 'The razor
is sharp.’

I paid him when it was over and tipped him half a lira.
He returned the coins.

T will not. I am not at the front. But I am an Italian.’

'Get to hell out of here.’

'With your permission,’ he said and wrapped his
razors in newspaper. He went out, leaving the five
copper coins on the table beside the bed. I rang the
bell. Miss Gage came in. ‘Would you ask the porter
to come, please?’

'All right.’

The porter came in. He was trying to keep from
laughing.

‘Is that barber crazy?’

‘No, signorino. He made a mistake. He doesn’t
understand very well and he thought I said you were
an Austrian officer.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

'Ho, ho, ho!’ the porter laughed. 'He was funny.
One move from you, he said, and he would have - ’ He
drew his forefinger across his throat.

'Ho, ho, ho!’ He tried to keep from laughing. 'When
I tell him you were not an Austrian. Ho, ho, ho!’

'Ho, ho, ho!’ I said bitterly. 'How funny if he would
cut my throat. Ho, ho, ho!’

'No, signorino. No, no. He was so frightened of an
Austrian. Ho, ho, ho.’

lOI

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Ho, ho, ho!’ I said. ‘Get out of here!’

He went out and I heard him laughing in the hall.
I heard someone coming down the hallway. I looked
toward the door. It was Catherine Barkley.

She came in the room and over to the bed.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said. She looked fresh and young
and very beautiful. I thought I had never seen anyone
so beautiful.

‘Hello,’ I said. When I saw her I was in love with
her. Everything turned over inside of me. She looked
toward the door, saw there was no one, then she sat on
the side of the bed and leaned over and kissed me. I
pulled her down and kissed her and felt her heart beating.

‘You sweet,’ I said. ‘Weren’t you wonderful to come
here?’

‘It wasn’t very hard. It may be hard to stay.’

‘You’ve got to stay,’ I said. ‘Oh, you’re wonderful.’
I was crazy about her. I could not believe she was really
there and held her tight to me.

‘You mustn’t,’ she said. ‘You’re not well enough.’

‘Yes. I am. Come on.’

‘No. You’re not strong enough.’

‘Yes. I am. Yes. Please.’

‘You do love me?’

‘I really love you. I’m crazy about you. Come on,
please.’

‘Feel our hearts beating?’

‘I don’t care about our hearts. I want you. I’m just
mad about you.’

‘You really love me?’

Don t keep on saying that. Come on. Please, please,
Catherine.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘All right, but only for a minute.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Shut the door.’

‘You can’t. You shouldn’t-’

‘Come on. Don’t talk. Please come on.’

Catherine sat in a chair by the bed. The door was
open into the hall. The wildness was gone and I felt
finer than I had ever felt.

She asked, ‘Now do you believe I love you?’

‘Oh, you’re lovely,’ I said. ‘You’ve got to stay. They
can’t send you away. I’m crazy in love with you.’

‘We’ll have to be awfully careful. That was just mad-
ness. We can’t do that.’

‘We can at night.’

‘W’e’ll have to be awfully careful. You’ll have to be
careful in front of other people.’

‘I will.’

‘You’ll have to be. You’re sweet. You do love me,
don’t you?’

‘Don’t say that again. You don’t know what that
does to me.’

T’ll be careful then. I don’t want to do anything
more to you. I have to go now, darling, really.’

‘Come back right away.’

‘I’ll come when I can.’

‘Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, sweet.’

She went out. God knows I had not wanted to fall
in love vifith her. I had not wanted to fall in love with
anyone. But God knows I had and I lay on the bed
in the room of the hospital in Milan and all sorts of
things went through my head and finally Miss Gage
came in.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘The doctor’s coming,’ she said. ‘He telephoned
from Lake Como.’

‘When does he get here?’

‘He’ll be here this afternoon.’

CHAPTER 15

Nothing happened until afternoon. The doctor was
a thin quiet little man who seemed disturbed by the
war. He took out a number of small steel splinters
from my thighs with delicate and refined distaste. He
used a local anaesthetic called something or other ‘snow,’
which froze the tissue and avoided pain until the probe,
the scalpel or the forceps got below the frozen portion.
The anaesthetized area was clearly defined by the patient,
and after a time the doctor’s fragile delicacy was ex-
hausted and he said it would be better to have an X-ray,
Probing was unsatisfactory, he said.

The X-ray was taken at the Ospedale Maggiore, and
the doctor who did it was excitable, efficient and cheerful.
It was arranged by holding up the shoulders, that the
patient should see personally some of the larger foreign
bodies through the machine. The plates were to be
sent over. The doctor requested me to write in his
pocket notebook, my name, and regiment and some
sentiment. He declared that the foreign bodies were
ugly, nasty, brutal. The Austrians were sons of bitches.
How many had I killed? I had not killed any, but I
w^ anxious to please -and I said I had killed plenty.
Miss Gage was with me and the doctor put his arm

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

around her and said she was more beautiful than Cleo-
patra, Did she understand that? Cleopatra the former
queen of Egypt. Yes, by God she was. We returned
to the little hospital in the ambulance, and after a while
and much lifting I was upstairs and in bed again. The
plates came that afternoon, the doctor had said by God
he would have them that afternoon and he did. Catherine
Barkley showed them to me. They were in red envelopes
and she took them out of the envelopes and held them
up to the light and we both looked.

‘That’s your right leg,’ she said, then put the plate
back in the envelope. ‘This is your left.’

Tut them away,’ I said, ‘and come over to the bed.’

T can’t,’ she said. ‘I just brought them in for a second
to show you.’

She went out and I lay there. It was a hot after-
noon and I was sick of lying in bed. I sent the porter
for the papers, all the papers he could get.

Before he came back three doctors came into the
room. I have noticed that doctors who fail in the prac-
tice of medicine have a tendency to seek one another’s
company and aid in consultation. A doctor who cannot
take out your appendix properly will recommend to
you a doctor who will be unable to remove your tonsils
with success. These were three such doctors.

‘This is the young man,’ said the house doctor with
the delicate hands.

‘How do you do?’ said the tall gaunt doctor with
the beard. The third doctor, who carried the X-ray
plates in their red envelopes, said nothing.

‘Remove the dressings?’ questioned the bearded
doctor.

‘Certainly. Remove the dressings, please, nurse,’

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

the house doctor said to Miss Gage. Miss Gage re-
moved the dressings. I looked down at the legs. At
the field hospital they had the look of not too freshly
ground hamburger steak. Now they were crusted and
the knee was swollen and discoloured, and the calf
sunken, but there was no pus.

‘Very clean,’ said the house doctor. ‘Very clean and
nice.’

‘Um,’ said the doctor with the beard. The third
doctor looked over the house doctor’s shoulder.

‘Please move the knee,’ said the bearded doctor.

‘I can’t.’

‘Test the articulation?’ the bearded doctor questioned.
He had a stripe beside the three stars on his sleeve.
That meant he was a first captain.

‘Certainly,’ the house doctor said. Two of them
took hold of my right leg very gingerly and bent it.

‘That hurts,’ I said.

‘Yes, yes. A little further, doctor.’

‘That’s enough. That’s as far as it goes,’ I said.

‘Partial articulation,’ said the first captain. He straight-
ened up. ‘May I see the plates again, please, doctor?’
The third doctor handed him one of the plates. ‘No.
The left leg, please.’

‘That is the left leg, doctor.’

‘You are right. I was looking from a different angle.’
He returned the plate. The other plate he examined for
some time. ‘You see, doctor?’ he pointed to one of the
foreign bodies which showed spherical and clear against
the light. They examined the plate for some time.

‘Only one thing I can say,’ the first captain with the
beard said. ‘It is a question of time. Three months,
six months probably.’

io6

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Certainly the synoveal fluid must re-form.’

‘Certainly. It is a question of time. I could not con-
scientiously open a knee like that before the projectile
was encysted.’

‘I agree with you, doctor.’

‘Six months for what?’ I asked.

‘Six months for the projectile to encyst before the
knee can be opened safely.*

‘I don’t believe it,’ I said.

‘Do you want to keep your knee, young man?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘I want it cut off,’ I said, ‘so I can wear a hook on it.’

‘What do you mean? A hook?’

‘He is joking,’ said the house doctor. He patted my
shoulder very delicately. ‘He wants to keep his knee.
This is a very brave young man. He has been proposed
for the silver medal of valour.’

‘All my felicitations,’ said the first captain. He shook
my hand. ‘I can only say that to be on the safe side
you should wait at least six months before opening
such a knee. You are welcome of course to another
opinion.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘I value your opinion.’

The first captain looked at his watch.

‘We must go,’ he said. ‘All my best wishes.’

‘All my best wishes and many thanks,’ I said. I shook
hands with the third doctor, Capitan Varini-Tenente
Enrj’', and they all three went out of the room.

‘Miss Gage,’ I called. She came in. ‘Please ask the
house doctor to come back a minute.’

He came in holding his cap and stood by the bed.
‘Did you wish to see me?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Yes. I can’t wait six months to be operated on.
My God, doctor, did you ever stay in bed six months?’

‘You won’t be in bed all the time. You must first
have the wounds exposed to the sun. Then afterward
you can be on crutches.’

‘For six months and then have an operation?’

‘That is the safe way. The foreign bodies must be
allowed to encyst and the synoveal fluid will re-form.
Then it will be safe to open up the knee.’

‘Do you really think yourself I will have to wait that
long?’

‘That is the safe way.’

‘Who is that first captain?’

‘He is a very excellent surgeon of Milan.’

‘He’s a first captain, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, but he is an excellent surgeon.’

‘I don’t want my leg fooled with by a first captain.
If he was any good he would be made a major. I know
what a first captain is, doctor.’

‘He is an excellent surgeon and I would rather have
his judgment than any surgeon I know.’

‘Could another surgeon see it?’

‘Certainly, if you wish. But I would take Dr. Barella’s
opinion myself.’

‘Could you ask another surgeon to come and see it?’

‘I will ask Valentini to come.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He is a surgeon of the Ospedale Maggiore.’

‘Good. I appreciate it very much. You understand,
doctor, I couldn’t stay in bed six months.’

You would not be in bed. You would first take a
sun cure. Then you could have light exercise. Then
when it was encysted we would operate.’

io8

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘But I can’t wait six months.’

The doctor spread his delicate fingers on the cap he
held and smiled. ‘You are in such a hurry to get back
to the front?’

‘Why not?’

‘It is very beautiful,’ he said. ‘You are a noble young
man.’ He stooped over and kissed me very delicately on
the forehead. ‘I will send for Valentini. Do not worry
and excite yourself. Be a good boy.’

‘Will you have a drink?’ I asked.

‘No thank you. I never drink alcohol.’

‘Just have one.’ I rang for the porter to bring glasses.

‘No. No thank you. They are waiting for me.’

‘Good-bye,’ I said.

‘Good-bye.’

Two hours later Dr. Valentini came into the room.
He was in a great hurry and the points of his moustache
stood straight up. He was a major, his face was tanned
and he laughed all the time.

‘How did you do it, this rotten thing?’ he asked.
‘Let me see the plates. Yes. Yes. That’s it. You look
healthy as a goat. Who’s the pretty girl? Is she your
girl? I thought [so. Isn’t this a bloody war? How
does that feel? You are a fine boy. I’ll make you
better than new. Does that hurt? You bet it hurts.
How they love to hurt you, these doctors. What have
they done for you so far? Can’t that girl talk Italian?
She should learn. What a lovely girl. I could teach
her. I will be a patient here myself. No, but I will do
all your maternity work free. Does she understand
that? She will make you a fine boy. A fine blonde like
she is. That’s fine. That’s all right. What a lovely

109

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

girl. Ask her if she eats supper with me. No, I don’t
take her away from you. Thank you. Thank you very
much, miss. That’s all.’

‘That’s all I want to know.’ He patted me on the
shoulder. ‘Leave the dressings off.’

‘Will you have a drink. Dr. Valentini?’

‘A drink? Certainly. I will have ten drinks. Where
are they?’

‘In the armoire. Miss Barkley will get the bottle.’

‘Cheery oh. Cheery oh to you, miss. What a lovely
girl. I -ivill bring you better cognac than that.’ He wiped
his moustache.

‘When do you think it can be operated on?’

‘To-morrow morning. Not before. Your stomach
must be emptied. You must be washed out. I will see
the old lady downstairs and leave instructions. Good-
bye. I see you to-morrow. I’ll bring you better cognac
than that. You are very comfortable here. Good-bye.
Until to-morrow. Get a good sleep. I’ll see you early.’
He waved from the doorway, his moustaches went
straight up, his brown face was smiling. There was a
star in a box on his sleeve because he was a major.

CHAPTER i6

That night a bat flew into the room through the open
door that led on to the balcony and through which
we watched the night over the roofs of the town. It
was dark in our room except for the small light of the
night over the town and the bat was not frightened, but

no

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

hunted in the room as though he had been outside. We
lay and watched him and I do not think he saw us^
because we lay so still. After he went out we saw a search-
light come on and watched the beam move across the
sky and then go off and it was dark again. A breeze
came in the night and we heard the men of the anti-
aircraft gun on the next roof talking. It was cool and
they were putting on their capes. I worried in the night
about someone coming up, but Catherine said they
were all asleep. Once in the night we went to sleep
and when I woke she was not there, but I heard her
coming along the hall and the door opened and she
came back to the bed and said it was all right she had
been downstairs and they were all asleep. She had
been outside Miss Van Campen’s door and heard her
breathing in her sleep. She brought crackers and we
ate them and drank some vermouth. We w^ere very
hungry, but she said that would all have to be gotten
out of me in the morning. I went to sleep again in the
morning when it was light and when I was awake I
found she was gone again. She came in looldng fresh
and lovely and sat on the bed, and the sun rose while I
had the thermometer in my mouth, and we smelled the
dew on the roofs and then the coffee of the men at the
gun on the next roof.

‘I wish we could go for a walk,’ Catherine said. ‘I’d
wheel you if we had a chair.’

‘How would I get into the chair?’

‘We’d do it.’

‘We could go out to the park and have breakfast out-
doors.’ I looked out the open doorway.

‘What we’ll really do,’ she said, ‘is get you ready for
your friend, Dr. Valentini.’

Ill

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T thought he was grand.’

T didn’t like him as much as you did. But I imagine
he’s very good.’

‘Come back to bed, Catherine, please,’ I said.

‘I can’t. Didn’t we have a lovely night?’

‘And can you be on night-duty to-night?’

‘I probably will. But you won’t want me.’

‘Yes, I ■will.’

‘No, you won’t. You’ve never been operated on. You
don’t know how you’ll be.’

‘I’ll be all right.’

‘You’ll be sick and I won’t be anything to you.’

‘Come back then now.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I have to do the chart, darling, and
fix you up.’

‘You don’t really love me or you’d come back again.’

‘You’re such a silly boy.’ She kissed me. ‘That’s
all right for the chart. Your temperature’s always normal.
You’ve such a lovely temperature.’

‘You’ve got a lovely ever5^hing.’

‘Oh, no. You have the lovely temperature. I’m awfully
proud of your temperature.’

‘Maybe all our children will have fine temperatures.’

‘Our children will probably have beastly tempera-
tures.’

‘What do you have to do to get me ready for Valentini?’

‘Not much. But quite unpleasant.’

‘I wish you didn’t have to do it.’

‘I don’t. I don’t want anyone else to touch you. I’m
silly. I get furious if they touch you.’

‘Even Ferguson?’

‘Especially Ferguson and Gage and the other, what’s
her name?’

1 13

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Walker?’

‘That’s it. They’ve too many nurses here now. There
must be some more patients or they’ll send us awav.
They have four nurses now.’

‘Perhaps there’ll be some. They need that many
nurses. It’s quite a big hospital.’

‘I hope some will come. What would I do if they
sent me away? They will unless there are more patients.’

‘I’d go too.’

‘Don’t be silly. You can’t go yet. But get well quickly,
darling, and we will go somewhere.’

‘And then what?’

‘Maybe the war will be over. It can’t always go on.’

‘I’ll get well,’ I said. ‘Valentini will fix me.’

‘He should with those moustaches. And, darling,
when you’re going under the ether, just think about
something else - not us. Because people get very blabby
under an anaesthetic.’

‘What should I think about?’

‘An3rthing. Anything but us. Think about your
people. Or even any other girl.’

‘No.’

‘Say your prayers then. That ought to create a splendid
impression.’

‘Maybe I w'on’t talk.’

‘That’s true. Often people don’t talk.’

‘I won’t talk.’

‘Don’t brag, darling. Please don’t brag. You’re so
sweet and you don’t have to brag.’

‘I won’t talk a word.’

‘Now you’re bragging, darling. You know you don’t
need to brag. Just start your prayers or poetry or some-
thing when they tell you to breathe deeply. You’ll
H 113

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

be lovely that way and I’ll be so proud of you. I’m
very proud of you anyway. You have such a lovely
temperature and you sleep like a little boy with your
arm around the pillow and think it’s me. Or is it some
other girl ? Some fine Italian girl?’

‘It’s you.’

‘Of course it’s me. Oh, I do love you, and Valen-
tini will make you a fine leg. I’m glad I don’t have to
watch it.’

‘And you’ll be on night-duty to-night.’

‘Yes. But you won’t care.’

‘You wait and see.’

‘There, darling. Now you’re all clean inside and
out. Tell me. How many people have you ever loved?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Not even me?’

‘Yes, you.’

‘How many others really?’

‘None.’

‘How many have you - how do you say it? - stayed with?’

‘None.’

‘You’re lying to me.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s all right. Keep right on lying to me. That’s
what I want you to do. Were they pretty?’

‘I never stayed with anyone.’

‘That’s right. Were they very attractive?’

‘I don’t know anything about it.’

You re just mine. That’s true and you’ve never
belonged to anyone else. But I don’t care if you have.
I’m not afraid of them. But don’t tell me about them.
When a man stays with a girl when does she say how
much it costs?’

114

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T don’t know/

‘Of course not. Does she say she loves him? Tell
me that. I want to know that.’

‘Yes. If he wants her to.’

‘Does he say he loves her? Tell me, please. It’s im-
portant,’

‘He does if he wants to.’

‘But you never did? Really?’

‘No/

‘Not really. Tell me the truth?’

‘No,’ I lied.

‘You wouldn’t,’ she said. T knew you wouldn’t. Oh,
I love you, darling.’

Outside the sun was up over the roofs and I could
see the points of the cathedral with the sunlight on
them. I was clean inside and outside and waiting for
the doctor.

‘And that’s it?’ Catherine said. ‘She says just what
he wants her to?’

‘Not always.’

‘But I will. I’ll say just what you wish and I’ll do
what you wish and then you will never want any other
girls, will you?’ She looked at me very happily. ‘I’ll
do what you want and say what you want and then I’ll
be a great success, won’t I?’

‘Yes.’

‘What would you like me to do now that you’re all ready?’

‘Come to the bed again.’

‘All right. I’ll come.’

‘Oh, darling, darling, darling,’ I said.

‘You see,’ she said. ‘I do anything you want.’

‘You’re so lovely.’

T’m afraid I’m not very good at it yet,’

115

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘You’re lovely.’

‘I want what you want. There isn’t any me any more.
Just what you want.’

‘You sweet.’

‘I’m good. Aren’t I good? You don’t want any other
girls, do you?’

‘No.’ '

‘You see? I’m good. I do what you want.’

CHAPTER 17

Whex I was awake after the operation I had not been
away. You do not go away. They only choke you.
It is not like dying, it is just a chemical choking, so
you do not feel, and aftervi'-ard you might as well have
been drunk except that when you throw up nothing
comes but bile and you do not feel better afterward.
I saw sandbags at the end of the bed. They were on
pipes that came out of the cast. After a while I saw
Miss Gage and she said, ‘How is it now?’

‘Better,’ I said.

‘He did a wonderful job on your knee.’

‘How long did it take?’

‘Two hours and a half.’

‘Did I say anything silly?’

‘Not a thing. Don’t talk. Just be quiet.’

I was sick and Catherine was right. It did not make
any diiference who was on night-duty.

There were three other patients in the hospital now,

116

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

a thin boy in the Red Cross from Georgia with malaria^
a nice boy, also thin, from New York, with malaria
and jaundice, and a fine boy who had tried to unscrew
the fuse-cap from a combination shrapnel and high
explosive shell for a souvenir. This was a shrapnel shell
used by the Austrians in the mountains with a nose-cap
which went on after the burst and exploded on contact.

Catherine Barkley was greatly liked by the nurses
because she would do night-duty indefinitely. She had
quite a little work with the malaria people, the boy who
had unscrewed the nose-cap was a friend of ours and
never rang at night unless it was necessary, but between
the times of working we were together. I loved her
very much and she loved me. I slept in the daytime
and we wrote notes during the day w'hen w^e were awake
and sent them by Ferguson. Ferguson was a fine girl.
I never learned anything about her except that she
had a brother in the Fifty-Second Division and a
brother in Mesopotamia and she was very good to
Catherine Barkley.

‘Will you come to our wedding, Fergy?’ I said to
her once.

‘You’ll never get married.’

‘We will.’

‘No you won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’ll fight before you’ll marry.’

‘We never fight.’

‘You’ve time yet.’

‘We don’t fight.’

‘You’ll die then. Fight or die. That’s what people
do. They don’t marry.’

I reached for her hand. ‘Don’t take hold of me,’

117

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

she said. ‘I’m not crying. Maybe you’ll be all right
you two. But watch out you don’t get her into trouble.
You get her in trouble and I’ll kill you.’

T won’t get her in trouble.’

‘Well watch out then. I hope you’ll be all right.
You have a good time.’

‘We have a fine time.’

‘Don’t fight then and don’t get her into trouble.’

‘I won’t.’

‘iVIind you watch out. I don’t want her with any of
these war babies.’

‘You’re a fine girl, Fergy.’

‘I’m not. Don’t try to flatter me. How does your
leg feel?’

‘Fine.’

‘How is your head?’ She touched the top of it with
her fingers. It was sensitive like a foot that had gone to
sleep. ‘It’s never bothered me.’

‘A bump like that could make you crazy. It never
bothers you?’

‘No.’

‘You’re a lucky young man. Have you the letter done?
I’m going down.’

‘It’s here,’ I said.

‘You ought to ask her not to do night-duty for a while.
She’s getting very tired.’

‘All right. IwiU.’

‘I want to do it but she won’t let me. The others
are glad to let her have it. You might give her just a
little rest.’

‘All right.’

‘Miss Van Campen spoke about you sleeping all the
forenoons.’

ii8

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'She would.’

Tt would be better if you let her stay off nights a little
while.’

T want her to.’

‘You do not. But if you would make her I’d respect
you for it.’

T’ll make her.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ She took the note and w^ent out.
I rang the bell and in a little while Miss Gage came in.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I just w^anted to talk to you. Don’t you think Miss
Barkley ought to go off night-duty for a while? She
looks awfully tired. Why does she stay on so long?’

Miss Gage looked at me.

T’m a friend of yours,’ she said. You don’t have
to talk to me like that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t be silly. W^as that all you w^anted?’

‘Do you w^ant a vermouth?’

‘All right. Then I have to go.’ She got out the bottle
from the armoire and brought a glass.

‘You take the glass,’ I said. ‘I’ll drink out of the bottle.’

‘Here’s to you,’ said Miss Gage.

‘'What did Van Campen say about me sleeping late
in the mornings?’

‘She just jawed about it. She calls you our privileged
patient.’

‘To hell with her.’

‘She isn’t mean,’ Miss Gage said. ‘She’s just old
and cranky. She never liked you.’

‘No.’

‘Well, I do. And I’m your friend. Don’t forget
that.’

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘YouVe awfully damned nice/

^Xo. I know who you think is nice. But Fm your
friend. How does vour leg feel.^’

Tine/

T’ll bring some cold mineral water to pour over it.
It must itch under the cast. It’s hot outside.’

‘You’re awfully nice.’

‘Does it itch much?’

hXo. It’s fine.’

Til fix those sandbags better.’ She leaned over. T’m
your friend/

T know you are,’

‘No you don’t. But you will some day.’

Catherine Barkley took three nights off night-duty,
and then she came back on again. It was as though we
met again after each of us had been away on a long
journey.

CHAPTER i8

We had a lovely time that summer. When I could go
out we rode in a carriage in the park. I remember the
carriage, the horse going slowly, and up ahead the back
of the driver with his varnished high hat, and Catherine
Barkley sitting beside me. If we let our hands touch,
just the side of my hand touching hers, we were ex-
cited. Afterward when I could get around on crutches
we went to dinner at Biffi’s or the Gran Italia and sat
at the tables outside on the floor of the galleria. The waiters
came in and out and there were people going by and
candles with shades on the tablecloths and after we de-

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

cided that we liked the Gran Italia bestj George ^ the
head-waiter, saved us a table. He was a fine waiter
and we let him order the meal while we looked at the
people, and the great galleria in the dusk and each other.
We drank dry white capri iced in a bucket; although we
tried many of the other wines, fresa, barbera and the
sweet wEite wines. They had no wine waiter because
of the war and George would smile ashamedly when I
asked about wines like fresa.

Tf you imagine a country that makes a wine because
it tastes like strawberries,’ he said.

‘Why shouldn’t it?’ Catherine asked. Tt sounds
splendid.’

‘You try it, lady,’ said George, if you w^ant to. But
let me bring a little bottle of margaux for the Tenente.’

T’ll try it too, George.’

‘Sir, I can’t recommend you to. It doesn’t even taste
like strawberries.’

Tt might,’ said Catherine, ‘It would be wonderful if
it did.’

‘I’ll bring it,’ said George, ‘and when the lady is
satisfied I’ll take it away.’

It w^as not much of a wine. As he said it did not
even taste like straw-berries. We w^ent back to capri.
One evening I w^as short of money and George loaned
me a hundred lire. ‘That’s all right, Tenente,’ he said.
‘I know how it is. I know how a man gets short. If
you or the lady need money I’ve always got money.’

After dinner we walked through the galleria, past
the other restaurants and the shops with their steel
shutters down, and stopped at the little place where
they sold sandwiches; ham and lettuce sandwiches and
anchovy sandwiches made of very tiny brown glazed

IZI

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

rolls and only about as long as your finger. They were
to eat in the night when we were hungry. Then we got
into an open carriage outside the galleria in front of
the cathedral and rode to the hospital. At the door of
the hospital the porter came out to help with the
crutches. I paid the driver, and then we rode upstairs
in the elevator. Catherine got off at the lower floor
where the nurses lived and I went on up and went
down the hall on crutches to my room; sometimes I un-
dressed and got into bed and sometimes I sat out on the
balcony with my leg up on another chair and watched
the swallows over the roofs and waited for Catherine.
WTien she came upstairs it was as though she had been
away on a long trip and I went along the hall with her
on the cmtches and carried the basins and waited out-
side the doors, or went in with her; it depending on
whether they were friends of ours or not, and when
she had done all there was to be done we sat out on the
balcony outside my room. Afterward I went to bed anH
W'hen they were all asleep and she was sure they
w’ould not call she came in. I loved to take her hair
down and she sat on the bed and kept very still, except
suddenly she would dip down to kiss me while I was
doing it, and I would take out the pins and lay them
sheet and it would be loose and I would watch
her wMe she kept very still and then take out the last
two pins and it would all come down and she would drop
her head and we would both be inside of it, and it was
the feeling of inside a tent or behind a falls.

She had wonderfully beautiful hair and I would lie
sometimes and watch her twisting it up in the light that
came in the open door and it shone even in the night as
water shines sometimes just before it is really daylight.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

She had a lovely face and body and lovely smooth skin
too. We would be lying together and I would touch
her cheeks and her forehead and under her eyes and
her chin and throat with the tips of my fingers and say,
‘Smooth as piano keys,’ and she would stroke my chin
with her finger and say, ‘Smooth as emery paper and
very hard on piano keys.’

‘Is it rough?’

‘No, darling. I was just making fun of you.’

It was lovely in the nights and if we could only
touch each other we were happy. Besides all the big
times we had many small ways of making love and we
tried putting thoughts in the other one’s head %vhile we
were in different rooms. It seemed to work sometimes
but that was probably because we were thinking the
same thing anyway.

We said to each other that we were married the first
day she had come to the hospital and -we counted
months from our wedding day. I wanted to be really
married but Catherine said that if we were they would
send her away and if we merely started on the for-
malities they would watch her and would break us up.
We would have to be married under Italian law and
the formalities were terrific. I wanted us to be married
really because I worried about having a child if I
thought about it, but we pretended to ourselves we were
married and did not worry much and I suppose I en-
joyed not being married, really. I know^ one night we
talked about it and Catherine said, ‘But, darling, they’d
send me a’way.’

‘Maybe they wouldn’t.’

‘They would. They’d send me home and then we
would be apart until after the war.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘I’d come on leave.’

‘You couldn’t get to Scotland and back on a leave.
Besides, I won’t leave you. What good would it do to
marry now? We’re really married. I couldn t be any
more married.’

‘I only wanted to for you.’

‘There isn’t any me. I’m you. Don’t make up a
separate me.’

‘I thought girls always wanted to be married.’

‘They do. But, darling, I am married. I’m married
to you. Don’t I make you a good wife?’

‘You’re a lovely wife.’

‘You see, darling, I had one experience of waiting to
be married.’

‘I don’t want to hear about it.’

‘You know I don’t love anyone but you. You shouldn’t
mind because someone else loved me.’

‘I do.’

‘You shouldn’t be jealous of someone who’s dead
when you have everything.’

‘No, but I don’t want to hear about it.’

‘Poor darling. And I know you’ve been with all
kinds of girls and it doesn’t matter to me.’

‘Couldn’t we be married privately some way? Then
if an3rthing happened to me or if you had a
child.’

‘There’s no way to be married except by church or
state. We are married privately. You see, darling, it
would mean everything to me if I had any religion.
But I haven’t any religion.’

‘You gave me the Saint Anthony.’

‘That was for luck. Some one gave it to me.’

‘Then nothing worries you?’

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‘Only being sent away from you. YouTe my re-
ligion. You’re all I’ve got.’

‘All right. But I’ll marry you the day you say.’

‘Don’t talk as though you had to make an honest
woman of me, darling. I’m a very honest woman. You
can’t be ashamed of something if you’re only happy
and proud of it. Aren’t you happy?’

‘But you won’t ever leave me for someone else?’

‘No, darling. I won’t ever leave you for someone
else. I suppose all sorts of dreadful things will happen
to us. But you don’t have to worry about that.’

‘I don’t. But I love you so much and you did love
someone else before.’

‘And what happened to him?’

‘He died.’

‘Yes and if he hadn’t I wouldn’t have met you. I’m
not unfaithful, darling. I’ve plenty of faults but I’m
very faithful. You’ll be sick of me I’ll be so faithful.’

‘I’ll have to go back to the front pretty soon.’

‘We won’t think about that until you go. You see
I’m happy, darling, and we have a lovely time. I
haven’t been happy for a long time and when I met you
perhaps I was nearly crazy. Perhaps I was crazy. But
now we’re happy and we love each other. Do let’s
please just be happy. You are happy, aren’t you? Is
there anything I do you don’t like? Can I do anything
to please you? Would you like me to take dow'n my hair?
Do you want to play?’

‘Yes and come to bed.’

‘All right. I’ll go and see the patients first.’

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CHAPTER 19

The summer went that way. I do not remember
much about the days, except that they were hot and
that there were many victories in the papers. I was
very healthy and my legs healed quickly so that it
was not very long after I was first on crutches before
I was through with them and walking with a cane.
Then I started treatments at the Ospedale Maggiore
for bending the knees, mechanical treatments, baking
in a box of mirrors with violet rays, massage, and
baths. I went over there afternoons, and afterward
stopped at the cafe and had a drink and read the papers.
I did not roam around the town; but wanted to get
home to the hospital from the caf6. All I wanted was to
see Catherine. The rest of the time I was glad to kill.
Mostly I slept in the mornings, and in the afternoons,
sometimes, I went to the races, and late to the me-
chanical-therapy treatments. Sometimes I stopped in
at the Anglo-American Club and sat in a deep leather-
cushioned chair in front of the window and read the
magazines. They would not let us go out together
when I was off crutches because it was unseemly for
a nurse to be seen unchaperoned with a patient who did
not look as though he needed attendance, so we v/ere
not together much in the afternoons. Although some-
times we could go out to dinner if Ferguson went
along. Miss Van Campen had accepted the status that
we were great friends because she got a great amount
of work out of Catherine. She thought Catherine
came from very good people and that prejudiced her

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in her favour finally, Aliss Van Campen admired family
Yery much and came from an excellent family herself.
The hospital was quite busy, too, and that kept her
occupied. It was a hot summer and I knew many
people in Milan but always was anxious to get back
home to the hospital as soon as the afternoon was over.
At the front they w^ere advancing on the Carso, they
had taken Kuk across from Plava and were taking the
Bainsizza plateau. The West front did not sound so
good. It looked as though the war were going on for
a long time. We were in the war now but I thought it
would take a year to get any great amount of troops
over and train them for combat. Next year would be
a bad year, or a good year maybe. The Italians were
using up an awful amount of men. I did not see how
it could go on. Even if they took all the Bainsizza and
Monte San Gabriele there were plenty of mountains
beyond for the Austrians. I had seen them. All the
highest mountains were beyond. On the Carso they
were going forward but there were marshes and
swamps down by the sea. Napoleon would have
whipped the Austrians on the plains. He never would
have fought them in the mountains. He would have
let them come down and whipped them around Verona.
Still nobody was whipping any one on the Western
front. Perhaps wars weren’t won any more. Maybe
they went on forever. Maybe it was another Hundred
Years’ War. I put the paper back on the rack and left
the club. I went down the steps carefully and walked
up the Via Manzoni. Outside the Gran Hotel I met
old Meyers and his wife getting out of a carriage. They
were coming back from the races. She was a big*
busted woman in black satin. He was short and old,

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with a white moustache and walked flat-footed with a
cane.

‘How do you do? How do you do?’ She shook hands.
‘Hello,’ said Meyers.

‘How were the races?’

‘Fine. They were just lovely. I had three winners.’

‘How did you do?’ I asked Meyers.

‘All right. I had a winner.’

‘I never know how he does,’ Mrs. Meyers said. ‘He
never tells me.’

‘I do all right,’ Meyers said. He was being cordial.
‘You ought to come out.’ While he talked you had the
impression that he was not looking at you or that he
mistook you for someone else.

‘I w'ill,’ I said.

‘I’m coming up to the hospital to see you,’ Mrs.
Meyers said. ‘I have some things for my boys. You’re
all my boys. You certainly are my dear boys.’

‘They’ll be glad to see you.’

‘Those dear boys. You too. You’re one of my
boys.’

‘I have to get back,’ I said.

‘You give my love to all those dear boys. I’ve got lots
of things to bring. I’ve some fine Marsala and cakes.’

‘Good-bye,’ I said. ‘They’ll be awfully glad to see you.’

‘Good-bye,’ said Meyers. ‘You come around to the
galleria. You know where my table is. We’re all there
every afternoon.’ I went on up the street. I wanted
to buy something at the Cova to take to Catherine. In-
side, at the Cova, I bought a box of chocolate and while
the girl wrapped it up I walked over to the bar. There
were a couple of British and some aviators. I had a
martini alone, paid for it, picked up the box of chocolate

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at the outside counter and walked on home toward
the hospital. Outside the little bar up the street from
the Scala there were some people I knew, a vice-consul,
two fellows who studied singing, and Ettore Aloretti,
an Italian from San Francisco who was in the Italian
army. I had a drink with them. One of the singers
was named Ralph Simmons, and he was singing under
the name of Enrico Del Credo. I never knew how well
he could sing but he was always on the point of some-
thing very big happening. He was fat and looked
shopw'om around the nose and mouth as though he
had hay- fever. He had come back from singing in
Piacenza. He had sung Tosca and it had been won-
derful.

‘Of course youVe never heard me sing,’ he said.

‘When will you sing here?’

‘Fli be at the Scala in the fall.’

‘I’ll bet they thrown the benches at you,’ Ettore said.
‘Did you hear how they threw the benches at him in
Modena?’

‘It’s a damned lie.’

‘They threw the benches at him,’ Ettore said. ‘I
was there. I threw six benches myself.’

‘You’re just a wop from Frisco.’

‘He can’t pronounce Italian,’ Ettore said. ‘Everywhere
he goes they throw the benches at him.’

‘Piacenza’s the toughest house to sing in the north
of Italy,’ the other tenor said. ‘Believe me that’s a
tough little house to sing.’ This tenor’s name was Edgar
Saunders, and he sang under the name of Edouardo
Giovanni.

‘I’d like to be there to see them throw the benches at
you,’ Ettore said. ‘You can’t sing Italian,’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'He’s a nut/ said Edgar Saunders. 'All he knows
how to say is throw benches.’

'That’s all they know how to do when you two sing/
Ettore said. 'Then when you go to America you’ll tell
about your triumphs at the Scala. They wouldn’t let you
get by the first note at the Scala.’

T’ll sing at the Scala/ Simmons said. 'I’m going to
sing Tosca in October.’

'We’ll go, won’t -we, Mac?’ Ettore said to the vice-
consul. 'They’ll need somebody to protect them.’

'Maybe the American army will be there to protect
them,’ the vice-consul said. 'Do you want another
drink, Simmons? You want a drink, Saunders?’

'All right,’ said Saunders.

'I hear you’re going to get the silver medal,’ Ettore
said to me. 'What kind of citation you going to get?’

'I don’t know. I don’t know I’m going to get it.’

‘You’re going to get it. Oh boy, the girls at the
Cova will think you’re fine then. They’ll all think you
killed two hundred Austrians or captured a whole
trench by yourself. Believe me, I got to work for my
decorations.’

'How many have you got, Ettore?’ asked the vice-
consul.

'He’s got everything,’ Simmons said. 'He’s the boy
they’re running the war for.’

'I’ve got the bronze twice and three silver medals,’
said Ettore. 'But the papers on only one have come
through.’

'What’s the matter with the others?’ asked Simmons.

‘The action wasn’t successful,’ said Ettore. 'When
the action isn’t successful they hold up all the medals.’

'How many times have you been wounded, Ettore?’

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"Three times bad. I got three wound-stripes. See?'
He pulled his sleeve around. The stripes were parallel
silver lines on a black background sewed to the cloth
of the sleeve about eight inches below the shoulder.

"You got one too,’ Ettore said to me. "Believe me
they’re fine to have. Fd rather have them than medals.
Believe me, boy, when you get three you’ve got some-
thing. You only get one for a wound that puts you
three months in the hospital.’

"Where were you wounded, Ettore?’ asked the vice-
consul.

Ettore pulled up his sleeve. "Here,’ he showed the
deep smooth red scar. "Here on my leg. I can’t show
you that because I got puttees on ; and in the foot.
There’s dead bone in my foot that stinks right now.
Every morning I take new little pieces out and it stinks
all the time.’

‘What hit you?’ asked Simmons.

"A hand grenade. One of those potato mashers. It
just blew the whole side of my foot off. You know
those potato mashers?’ He turned to me.

‘Sure.’

"I saw the son of a bitch throw it,’ Ettore said. ‘It
Imocked me down and I thought I was dead all right
but those damn potato mashers haven’t got an3rthmg
in them. I shot the son of a bitch with my rifle. I
always carry a rifle so they can’t tell I’m an officer.’

"How did he look?’ asked Simmons.

"That was the only one he had,’ Ettore said. "I don’t
know why he threw it. I guess he always wanted to
throw one. He never saw any real fighting probably.
I shot the son of a bitch all right.’

"How did he look when you shot him?’ Simmons asked.

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‘Hell, how should I know,’ said Ettore. ‘I shot him
in the belly. I was afraid I’d miss him if I shot him in
the head.’

‘How long have you been an officer, Ettore?’ I
asked.

‘Two years. I’m going to be a captain. How long
have you been a lieutenant?’

‘Going on three years.’

‘You can’t be a captain because you don’t know the
Italian language well enough,’ Ettore said. ‘You can
talk but you can’t read and write well enough. You
got to have an education to be a captain. Why don’t
you go in the American army?’

‘Maybe I will.’

‘I wish to God I could. Oh boy, how much does a
captain get, Mac?’

‘I don’t know exactly. Around two hundred and
fifty dollars, I think.’

‘Jesus Christ, what I could do with two hundred
and fifty dollars. You better get in the American army
quick, Fred. See if you can’t get me in.’

‘All right.’

‘I can command a company in Italian. I could learn
it in English easy.’

‘You’d be a general,’ said Sinunons.

‘No, I don’t know enough to be a general. A general’s
got to know a hell of a lot. You guys think there ain’t
anything to war. You ain’t got brains enough to be a
second-class corporal.’

‘Thank God I don’t have to be,’ Simmons said.

‘Maybe you will if they round up all you slackers.
Oh boy, I’d like to have you two in my platoon. Mac
too. I’d make you my orderly, Mac.’

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‘You’re a great boy, Ettore,’ Mac said. ‘But I’m
afraid you’re a militarist.’

‘I’ll be a colonel before the war’s over,’ Ettore said.

‘If they don’t kill you.’

‘They won’t kill me.’ He touched the stars at his
collar with his thumb and forefinger. ‘See me do that?
We always touch our stars if anybody mentions getting
killed.’

‘Let’s go, Sim,’ said Saunders standing up.

‘All right.’

‘So long,’ I said. T have to go too.’ It was a quarter
to six by the clock inside the bar. ‘Ciaou, Ettore.’

‘Ciaou, Fred,’ said Ettore. ‘That’s pretty fine you’re
going to get the silver medal.’

‘I don’t know I’ll get it.’

‘You’ll get it all right, Fred. I heard you were going
to get it all right.’

‘Well, so long,’ I said. ‘Keep out of trouble, Ettore.’

‘Don’t worry about me. I don’t drink and I don’t
run around. I’m no boozer and whorehound. I know
what’s good for me.’

‘So long,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re going to be pro-
moted captain.’

‘I don’t have to wait to be promoted. I’m going to
be a captain for merit of war. You know. Three stars
with the crossed sw'ords and crown above. That’s me.’

‘Good luck.’

‘Good luck. When you going back to the front?’

‘Pretty soon.’

‘Well, I’ll see you around.’

‘So long.’

‘So long. Don’t take any bad nickels.’

I walked on down a back street that led to a cross-

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cut to the hospital. Ettore was twenty-three. He had
been brought up by an uncle in San Francisco and was
visiting his father and mother in Torino when war was
declared. He had a sister, who had been sent to America
with him at the same time to live with the uncle, who
would graduate from normal school this year. He was
a legitimate hero w'ho bored every one he met. Catherine
could not stand him.

‘We have heroes too,’ she said. ‘But usually, darling,
they’re much quieter.’

‘I don’t mind him.’

‘I wouldn’t mind him if he wasn’t so conceited and
didn’t bore me, and bore me, and bore me.’

‘He bores me.’

‘You’re sweet to say so, darling. But you don’t
need to. You can picture him at the front and you
know' he’s useful but he’s so much the type of boy I
don’t care for.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re awfully sweet to know, and I try and like
him but he’s a dreadful, dreadful boy really.’

‘He said this afternoon he was going to be a captain.’

I m glad, said Catherine. ‘That should please him.’

‘Wouldn’t you like me to have some more exalted
rank?’

‘No, darling. I only want you to have enough rank
so that we’re admitted to the better restaurants.’

‘That’s just the rank I have.’

‘You have a splendid rank. I don’t want you to
have any more rank. It might go to your head. Oh,
darling, I’m awfully glad you’re not conceited. I’d
have married you even if you w'ere conceited but it’s
very restful to have a husband who’s not conceited.’

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We were talking softly out on the balcony. The
moon was supposed to rise but there was a mist over
the town and it did not come up and in a little while
it started to drizzle and w^e came in. Outside the mist
turned to rain and in a little while it was raining hard
and we heard it drumming on the roof. I got up and
stood at the door to see if it was raining in but it wasn’t
so I left the door open.

‘Who else did you see?’ Catherine asked.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Meyers.’

‘They’re a strange lot.’

‘He’s supposed to have been in the penitentiary at
home. They let him out to die.’

‘And he lived happily in Milan forever after.’

‘I don’t know how happily.’

‘Happily enough after jail I should think.’

‘She’s bringing some things here.’

‘She brings splendid things. Were you her dear
boy?’

‘One of them.’

‘You are all her dear boys/ Catherine said. ‘She
prefers the dear boys. Listen to it rain.’

‘It’s raining hard.’

‘And you’ll always love me, won’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the rain won’t make any difference?’

‘No.’

‘That’s good. Because I’m afraid of the rain.’

‘Why?’ I was sleepy. Outside the rain was falling
steadily.

‘I don’t loiow, darling. I’ve always been afraid of
the rain.

‘I like it.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T like to walk in it. But it’s very hard on loving.’

T’ll love you always.’

T’ll love you in the rain and in the snow and in the
hail and - what else is there?’

T don’t know. I guess I’m sleepy.’

‘Go to sleep, darling, and I’ll love you no matter how
it is.’

‘You’re not really afraid of the rain are you?’

‘Not when I’m with you.’

‘Why are you afraid of it?

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Don’t make me.’

‘Tell me.’

‘No.’

‘Tell me.’

‘All right. I’m afraid of the rain because sometimes
I see me dead in it.’

‘No.’

‘And sometimes I see you dead in it.’

‘That’s more likely.’

No its not, darling. Because I can keep you safe.

I know I can. But nobody can help themselves.’

‘Please stop it. I don’t want you to get Scotch and
crazy to-night. We won’t be together much longer.’

‘No, but I am Scotch and crazy. But I’ll stop it.
It’s all nonsense.’

‘Yes it’s all nonsense.’

‘It’s aU nonsense. It’s only nonsense. I’m not afraid
of the ram. I’m not afraid of the rain. Oh, oh, God,

I wish I wasn’t.’ She was crying. I comforted her

and she stopped crying. But outside it kept on
rammg. ^

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CHAPTER 20

One day in the afternoon we went to the races. Fer-
guson went too and Crowell Rodgers, the boy who had
been wounded in the eyes by the explosion of the shell
nose-cap. The girls dressed to go after lunch while
Crowell and I sat on the bed in his room and read the
past performances of the horses and the predictions in
the racing paper. Crowell’s head was bandaged and
he did not care much about these races but read the racing
paper constantly and kept track of all the horses for
something to do. He said the horses were a terrible
lot but they were all the horses we had. Old Meyers
liked him and gave him tips. Meyers v/on on nearly
every race but disliked to give tips because it brought
down the prices. The racing was very crooked. Men
who had been ruled off the turf everywhere else were
racing in Italy. Meyers’ information was good but I
hated to ask him because sometimes he did not answ^er,
and always you could see it hurt him to tell you, but he
felt obligated to tell us for some reason and he hated
less to tell Crowell. Crowell’s eyes had been hurt, one
was hurt badly, and Meyers had trouble with his eyes
and so he liked Crowell. Meyers never told his wife
what horses he was playing and she won or lost, mostly
lost, and talked all the time.

We four drove out to San Siro in an open carriage.
It was a lovely day and we drove out through the park
and out along the tramway and out of town where the
road was dusty. There were villas with iron fences and
big overgrown gardens and ditches with water flowing

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and green vegetable gardens with dust on the leaves.
We could look across the plain and see farmhouses
and the rich green farms with their irrigation ditches
and the mountains to the north. There were many car-
riages going into the race-track and the men at the
gate let us in without cards because we w^ere in uniform.
We left the carriage, bought programmes, and walked
across the infield and then across the smooth thick turf
of the course to the paddock. The grand stands were old
and made of wood and the betting booths were under
the stands and in a row out near the stables. There
was a crowd of soldiers along the fence in the infield.
The paddock was fairly well filled with people and they
were walking the horses around in a ring under the trees
behind the grand stand. We saw people we knew and got
chairs for Ferguson and Catherine and watched the horses.

They went around one after the other their heads
down, the grooms leading them. One horse, a purplish
black, Crow^ell sw'ore was dyed that colour. We watched
him and it seemed possible. He had only come out
just before the bell rang to saddle. We looked him up
in the programme from the number on the groom’s
arm and it was listed a black gelding named Japalac.
The race was for horses that had never won a race worth
one thousand lire or more. Catherine was sure his
colour had been changed. Ferguson said she could not
tell. I thought he looked suspicious. We all agreed we
ought to back him and pooled one hundred lire. The
odds sheets showed he would pay thirty-five to one.
Crowell went over and bought the tickets while we
watched the jockeys ride around once more and then go
out under the trees to the track and gallop slowly up to
the turn where the start was to be.

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We went up in the grand stand to watch the race.
They had no elastic barrier at San Siro then and the
starter lined up all the horses, they looked very small
way up the track, and then sent them off with a crack
of his long whip. They came past us with the black
horse well in front and on the turn he was running
away from the others. I w'atched them on the far side
with the glasses and saw the jockey fighting to hold
him in but he could not hold him and when they came
around the turn and into the stretch the black horse
was fifteen lengths ahead of the others. He went way
on up and around the turn after the finish.

‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ Catherine said. ‘We’ll have
over three thousand lire. He must be a splendid
horse.’

‘I hope his colour doesn’t run,’ Crowell said, ‘before
they pay off.’

‘He was really a lovely horse,’ Catherine said. ‘I
wonder if Mr. Meyers backed him.’

‘Did you have the winner?’ I called to Meyers. He
nodded.

‘I didn’t,’ Mrs. Meyers said. ‘Who did you children
bet on?’

‘Japalac.’

‘Really? He’s thirty-five to one!’

‘We liked his colour.’

‘I didn’t. I thought he looked seedy. They told me
not to back him.’

‘He won’t pay much,’ Meyers said.

‘He’s marked thirty-five to one in the quotes,’ I said.

‘He w'on’t pay much. At the last minute,’ Meyers
said, ‘they put a lot of money on him.’

‘Who?’

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‘Kempton and the boys. You’ll see. He won’t pay
two to one.’

‘Then we won’t get three thousand lire,’ Catherine
said. ‘I don’t like this crooked racing!’

‘We’ll get two hundred lire.’

‘That’s nothing. That doesn’t do us any good. I
thought we were going to get three thousand.’

‘It’s crooked and disgusting,’ Ferguson said.

‘Of course,’ said Catherine, ‘if it hadn’t been crooked
we’d never have backed him at all. But I would have
liked the three thousand lire.’

‘Let’s go down and get a drink and see what they
pay,’ Crowell said. We went out to where they posted
the numbers and the bell rang to pay off and they put
up 18.50 after Japalac to win. That meant he paid less
than even money on a ten-lire bet.

We went to the bar under the grand stand and had
a w'hisky and soda apiece. We ran into a couple of
Italians we knew and McAdams, the vice-consul, and
they came up with us when we joined the girls. The
Italians were full of manners and McAdams talked to
Catherine while we went down to bet again. Mr. Meyers
was standing near the pari mutuel.

‘Ask him what he played,’ I said to Crowell.

‘What are you on, Mr. Meyers?’ Crow'ell asked.
Meyers took out his programme and pointed to the
number five with his pencil.

‘Do you mind if we play him too?’ Crowell asked.

‘Go ahead. Go ahead. But don’t tell my wife I gave
it to you.’

‘Will you have a drink?’ I asked.

‘No thanks. I never drink.’

We put a hundred lire on number five to win and a

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hundred to place and then had another whisky and
soda apiece. I was feeling very good and we picked up
a couple more Italians, who each had a drink with us,
and went back to the girls. These Italians were also
very mannered and matched manners with the two we
had collected before. In a little while no one could sit
down. I gave the tickets to Catherine.

‘What horse is it?’

‘I don’t know. Mr. Meyers’ choice.’

‘Don’t you even know the name?’

‘No. You can find it on the programme. Number
five I think.’

‘You have touching faith,’ she said. The number
five won but did not pay anything. Mr. Meyers was
angry.

‘You have to put up two hundred lire to make twenty,’
he said. ‘Twelve lire for ten. It’s not w^orth it. My wife
lost twenty lire.’

‘I’ll go down with you,’ Catherine said to me. The
Italians all stood up. We went downstairs and out to the
paddock.

‘Do you like this?’ Catherine asked.

‘Yes. I guess I do.’

‘It’s all right, I suppose,’ she said. ‘But, darling, I
can’t stand to see so many people.’

‘We don’t see many.’

‘No. But those Meyers and the man from the bank
with his wife and daughters -’

‘He cashes my sight drafts,’ I said.

‘Yes but some one else would if he didn’t. Those
last four boys were awful.’

‘We can stay out here and watch the race from the
fence.’

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘That will be lovely. And, darling, let’s back a horse
we’ve never heard of and that Mr. Meyers won’t be
backing.’

‘All right.’

We backed a horse named Light For Me that finished
fourth in a field of five. We leaned on the fence and
watched the horses go by, their hoofs thudding as they
went past, and saw the mountains off in the distance and
Milan beyond the trees and the fields.

‘I feel so much cleaner,’ Catherine said. The horses
were coming back, through the gate, wet and sweating,
the jockeys quieting them and riding up to dismount
under the trees.

‘Wouldn’t you like a drink? We could have one out
here and see the horses.’

‘I’ll get them,’ I said.

‘The boy will bring them.’ Catherine said. She put
her hand up and the boy came out from the Pagoda
bar beside the stables. We sat down at a round iron table.

‘Don’t you like it better when we’re alone?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I felt very lonely when they were all there.’

‘It’s grand here,’ I said.

‘Yes, It’s really a pretty course.’

‘It’s nice.’

‘Don’t let me spoil your fun, darling. I’ll go back
whenever you want.’

No,’ I said. ‘We’ll stay here and have our drink.
Then we’ll go down and stand at the water-jump for the
steeplechase.’

‘You’re awfully good to me,’ she said.

After we had been alone awhile we were glad to see
the others again. We had a good time.

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CHAPTER 21

In September the first cool nights came^ then the
da^-^s were cool and the leaves on the trees in the park
began to turn colour and we knew the summer was gone.
The fighting at the front went very badly and they
could not take San Gabriele. The fighting on the Bain-
sizza plateau was over and by the middle of the month
the fighting for San Gabriele was about over too. They
could not take it. Ettore was gone back to the front.
The horses were gone to Rome and there was no more
racing. Crowell had gone to Rome too, to be sent back
to xAmerica. There were riots twice in the town against
the war and bad rioting in Turin. A British major at
the club told me the Italians had lost one hundred and
fifty thousand men on the Bainsizza plateau and on
San Gabriele. He said they had lost forty thousand
on the Carso besides. We had a drink and he talked.
He said the fighting was over for the year down here
and that the Italians had bitten off more than they
could chew. He said the offensive in Flanders was going
to the bad. If they killed men as they did this fall the
Allies would be cooked in another year. He said we
were all cooked but we were all right as long as we did
not know it. We were all cooked. The thing was not
to recognize it. The last country to realize they w^ere
cooked w^ould win the war. We had another drink.
Was I on somebody’s staff? No. He was. We were
alone in the club sitting back in one of the big leather
sofas. His boots were smoothly polished dull leather.
They were beautiful boots. He said it was all rot. They

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

thought only in divisions and man-power. They all
squabbled about divisions and only killed them when they
got them. They were all cooked . The Germans won the
victories. By God they were soldiers. The old Hun was
a soldier. But they were cooked too. We were all cooked.
I asked about Russia. He said they were cooked already.
I’d soon see they were cooked. Then the Austrians
were cooked too. If they got some Hun divisions they
could do it. Did he think they would attack this fall?
Of course they would. The Italians were cooked. Every-
body knew they were cooked. The old Hun would come
down through the Trentino and cut the railway at Vicenza
and then where would the Italians be? They tried that
in ’sixteen, I said. Not with Germans. Yes, I said.
But they probably wouldn’t do that, he said. It was too
simple. They’d try something complicated and get
royally cooked. I had to go, I said. I had to get back
to the hospital. ‘Good-bye,’ he said. Then cheerily,
‘Every sort of luck !’ There was a great contrast between
his world pessimism and personal cheeriness.

I stopped at a barber shop and was shaved and went
home to the hospital. My leg was as well as it would
get for a long time. I had been up for examination
three days before. There were still some treatments to
take before my course at the Ospedale Maggiore was
finished and I walked along the side street practising
not limping. An old man was cutting silhouettes -under
an arcade. I stopped to watch him. Two girls were
posing and he cut their silhouettes together, snipping very
fast and looking at them, his head on one side. 'The girls
were giggling. He showed me the silhouettes before he
pasted them on white paper and handed them to the girls.

‘They’re beautiful,’ he said. ‘How about you, Tenente?’

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The girls went away looking at their silhouettes and
laughing. They were nice-looking girls. One of them
worked in the wine shop across from the hospital.

'All right/ I said.

'Take your cap off.’

'No. With it on.’

Tt wall not be so beautiful/ the old man said. 'But/
he brightened, 'it will be more military,’

He snipped away at the black paper, then separated
the two thicknesses and pasted the profiles on a card
and handed them to me.

'How much?’

'That’s all right.’ He waved his hand, 'I just made
them for you.’

'Please.’ I brought out some coppers. 'For pleasure.’

'No. I did them for a pleasure. Give them to your girl.’

‘Many thanks until we meet.’

'Until I see thee.’

I went on to the hospital. There were some letters,
an official one, and some others. I was to have three
weeks’ convalescent leave and then return to the front.
I read it over carefully. Well, that was that. The con-
valescent leave started October fourth wffien my course
was finished. Three weeks was twenty- one days. That
made October tw^enty-fifth. I told them I would not
be in and went to the restaurant a little way up the
street from the hospital for supper and read my letters
and the Corner e della Sera at the table. There \^as a
letter from my grandfather, containing family news,
patriotic encouragement, a draft for tw’'o hundred dollars,
and a few clippings ; a dull letter from the priest at
our mess; a letter from a man I knew who was flying
with the French and had gotten in with a wild gang

K 145

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

and was telling about it, and a note from Rinaldi asking
me how long I was going to skulk in Milano and what
was all the news? He wanted me to bring him phono-
graph records and enclosed a list. I drank a small bottle
of chianti with the meal, had a coffee afterward with
a glass of cognac, finished the paper, put my letters in
my pocket, left the paper on the table with the tip and
went out. In my room at the hospital I undressed, put
on pyjamas and a dressing-gown, pulled down the cur-
tains on the door that opened on to the balcony and
sitting up in bed read Boston papers from a pile Mrs.
Meyers had left for her boys at the hospital. The
Chicago White Sox were winning the American League
pennant and the New York Giants were leading the
National League. Babe Ruth was a pitcher then playing
for Boston. The papers were dull, the news was local and
stale, and the war news was all old. The American
news was all training camps. I was glad I wasn’t in a
training camp. The baseball news was all I could read
and I did not have the slightest interest in it. A number
of papers together made it impossible to read with
interest. It was not very timely but I read at it for a while.
I wondered if America really got into the war, if they
would close down the major leagues. They probably
wouldn’t. There was still racing in Milan and the war
could not be much worse. They had stopped racing in
France. That was where our horse Japalac came from.
Catherine was not due on duty until nine o’clock. I
heard her passing along the floor when she first came on
duty and once saw her pass in the hall. She w^ent to
several other rooms and finally came into mine.

T’m late, darling,’ she said. ‘There was a lot to do.
How are you?’

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A FAREWELL TO AR:\IS

I told her about my papers and the leave.

'That’s lovely/ she said. A\'here do you want to go:’
'Nowhere. I want to stay here.’

'That’s silly. You pick a place to go and 111 come too/
'How’ will you work it?’

T don’t know. But I will.’

'You’re pretty wonderful.’

'No I’m not. But life isn’t hard to manage w'hen
you’ve nothing to lose.’

'How do you mean?’

'Nothing. I was only thinking how small obstacles
seemed that once were so big.’

'I should think it might be hard to manage.’

'No it won’t, darling. If necessary I’ll simply leave.
But it won’t come to that.’

'Where should we go?’

'I don’t care. Anpvhere you want. Anpvhere we
don’t Icnow people.’

'Don’t you care where we go?’

'No. rii like any place.’

She seemed upset and taut.

'What’s the matter, Catherine?’

'Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.’

‘Yes there is.’

'No, nothing. Really nothing.’

‘I know there is. Tell me, darling. You can tell me.’
'It’s nothing.’

'Tell me.’

'I don’t want to. I’m afraid I’ll make you unhappy or
worry you.’

'No it won’t/

'You’re sure? It doesn’t worry me but I’m afraid
to worry you.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Tt won’t if it doesn’t worry you.’

T don’t want to tell.’

‘Tell it.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m going to have a baby, darling. It’s almost three
months along. You’re not worried, are you? Please,
please don’t. You mustn’t worry.’

‘All right.’

‘Is it all right?’

‘Of course.’

‘I did everything. I took everything but it didn’t
make any difference.’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘I couldn’t help it, darling, and I haven’t worried
about it. You mustn’t worry or feel badly.’

‘ I only worry ab out you . ’

‘That’s it. That’s what you mustn’t do. People
have babies all the time. Everybody has babies. It’s
a natural thing.’

‘You’re pretty wonderful.’

‘No I’m not. But you mustn’t mind, darling. I’ll
try and not make trouble for you. I know I’ve made
trouble before. But haven’t I been a good girl until now?
You never knew it, did you?’

‘No.’

‘It will all be like that. You simply mustn’t worry.
I can see you’re worrying. Stop it. Stop it right away.
Wouldn’t you like a drink, darling? I know a drink
always makes you feel cheerful.’

‘No. I feel cheerful. And you’re pretty wonderful.’

‘No I’m not. But I’ll fix everything to be together
if you pick out a place for us to go. It ought to be

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

lovely in October, Well have a lovely time^ darling,
and 111 write you every day while youTe at the front.’

^ Where will you be?’

T don’t know yet. But somewhere splendid. Ill
look after all that.’

We were quiet awhile and did not talk. Catherine
was sitting on the bed and I was looking at her but we
did not touch each other. We were apart as when some
one comes into a room and people are self-conscious.
She put out her hand and took mine.

'You aren’t angiy^ are you, darling?’

'No.’

'And you don’t feel trapped?’

‘jMaybe a little. But not by you.’

‘I didn’t mean by me. You mustn’t be stupid. I
meant trapped at all.’

‘You always feel trapped biologically.’

She went away a long way without stirring or removing
her hand.

'Always isn’t a pretty word.’

T’m sorry.’

'It’s all right. But you see I’ve never had a baby
and I’ve never even loved anyone. And I’ve tried to
be the way you wanted and then you talk about
" always.” ’

'I could cut off my tongue,’ I offered.

'Oh, darling!’ she came back from wherever she had
been. 'You mustn’t mind me.’ We were both together
again and the self-consciousness was gone. 'We really
are the same one and we mustn’t misunderstand on
purpose.’

'We won’t.’

'But people do. They love each other and they

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

misunderstand on purpose and they fight and then
suddenly they aren’t the same one.’

‘We won’t fight.’

SVe mustn’t. Because there’s only us two and in
the world there’s all the rest of them. If anything comes
bet^veen us we’re gone and then they have us.’

‘They won’t get us,’ I said. ‘Because you’re too brave.
Nothing ever happens to the brave.’

‘They die of course.’

‘But only once.’

‘I don’t know. Who said that?’

‘The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one?’

‘Of course. Who said it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He was probably a coward,’ she said. ‘He knew
a great deal about cowards but nothing about the brave.
The brave dies perhaps two thousand deaths if he’s in-
telligent, He simply doesn’t mention them,’

‘I don’t know. It’s hard to see inside the head of the
brave.’

‘Yes. That’s how they keep that way.’

‘You’re an authority.’

‘You’re right, darling. That was deserved.’

‘You’re brave.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I would like to be.’

‘I’m not,’ I said, ‘I know where I stand. I’ve been
out long enough to know. I’m like a ball-player that
bats two hundred and thirty and knows he’s no better.’

‘What is a ball-player that bats two hundred and
thirty? It’s awfully impressive.’

Tt’s not. It means a mediocre hitter in baseball.’

‘But still a hitter,’ she prodded me.

‘Iguess we’re both conceited,’ I said. ‘But you are brave.’

ISO

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Xo. But I hope to be/

nVeVe both brave/ I said. ^And I^m very brave when
Fve had a drink. ^

'We’re splendid people/ Catherine said. She went
over to the armoire and brought me the cognac and a
glass. 'Have a drink, darling/ she said. 'YouVe been
awfully good.’

T don’t really want one.’

'Take one.’

'All right.’ I poured the water glass a third full of
cognac and drank it off.

'That was very big/ she said. T know brandy is
for heroes. But you shouldn’t exaggerate.’

‘Where will we live after the w^ar?’

Tn an old people’s home probably/ she said. ‘For
three years I looked forward very childishly to the war
ending at Christmas. But now I look forward till when
our son will be a lieutenant-commander.’

‘IMaybe he’ll be a general.’

‘If it’s a hundred years’ war he’ll have time to try
both of the services.’

‘Don’t you want a drink?’

‘Xo. It always makes you happy, darling, and it only
makes me dizzy.’

‘Didn’t you ever drink brandy?’

‘No, darling. I’m a very^ old-fashioned wife.’

I reached down to the floor for the bottle and poured
another drink.

T’d better go to have a look at your compatriots,’
Catherine said. ‘Perhaps you’ll read the papers until I
come back.’

‘Do you have to go?’

‘Now or later.’

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‘All right. Now.’

‘I’ll come back later.’

‘I’ll have finished the papers,’ I said.

CHAPTER 22

It turned cold that night and the next day it was
raining. Coming home from the Ospedale Maggiore
it rained very hard and I was wet when I came in. Up
in my room the rain was coming down heavily outside
on the balcony, and the wind blew it against the glass
doors. I changed my clothing and drank some brandy
but the brandy did not taste good. I felt sick in the
night and in the morning after breakfast I was nauseated.

‘There is no doubt about it,’ the house surgeon said.
‘Look at the whites of his eyes. Miss.’

Miss Gage looked. They had me look in a glass. The
whites of the eyes were yellow and it was the jaundice.
I was sick for two weeks with it. For that reason we
did not spend a convalescent leave together. We had
planned to go to Pallanza on Lago Maggiore. It is
nice there in the fall when the leaves turn. There are
walks you can take and you can troll for trout in the
lake. It would have been better than Stresa because
there are fewer people at Pallanza. Stresa is so easy
to get to from Milan that there are always people you
know. There is a nice village at Pallanza and you can
row out to the islands where the fishermen live and
there is a restaurant on the biggest island. But we
did not go.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

One day while I was in bed wdth jaundice Aliss Van
Campen came in the room, opened the door into the
armoire and saw the empty bottles there. I had sent a
load of them down by the porter and I believe she must
have seen them going out and come up to find some
more. They w^ere mostly vermouth bottles, marsala
bottles, capri bottles, empty chianti flasks and a few'
cognac bottles. The porter had carried out the large
bottles, those that had held vermouth, and the straw-
covered chianti flasks, and left the brandy bottles for the
last. It was the brandy bottles and a bottle shaped like a
bear wLich had held kiimmel that IMiss Van Campen
found. The bear-shaped bottle enraged her particularly.
She held it up, the bear was sitting up on his haunches
with his paw^s up, there w'as a cork in his glass head and a
few^ sticky crystals at the bottom. I laughed.

Tt W'as kiimmel,’ I said. ‘The best kiimmel comes
in those bear-shaped bottles. It comes from Russia.’

‘Those are ail brandy bottles, aren’t they?’ Miss Van
Campen asked.

T can’t see them all,’ I said. ‘But they probably are.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘I bought them and brought them in myself,’ I said.
‘I have had Italian officers visit me frequently and I
have kept brandy to offer them.’

‘You haven’t been drinking it yourself?’ she said.

‘I have also drunk it myself.’

‘Brandy,’ she said. ‘Eleven empty bottles of brandy
and that bear liquid.’

‘Kiimmel.’

‘I will send for some one to take them away. Those
are all the empty bottles you have?’

‘For the moment.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘And I was pitying you having jaundice. Pity is some-
thing that is wasted on you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I suppose you can’t be blamed for not wanting to
go back to the front. But I should think you would
try something more intelligent than producing jaundice
with alcoholism.’

‘With what?’

‘With alcoholism. You heard me say it.’ I did not say
anything. ‘Unless you find something else I’m afraid you
will have to go back to the front when you are through
with your jaundice. I don’t believe self-inflicted jaundice
entitles you to a convalescent leave.’

‘You don’t?’

‘I do not.’

‘Have you ever had jaundice, Miss Van Campen?’

‘No, but I have seen a great deal of it.’

‘You noticed how the patients enjoyed it?’

‘I suppose it is better than the front.’

‘Miss Van Campen,’ I said, ‘did you ever know a
man who tried to disable himself by kicking himself
in the privates?’

Miss Van Campen ignored the actual question. She
had to ignore it or leave the room. She was not ready
to leave because she had disliked me for a long time
and she was now cashing in.

‘I have known many men to escape the front through
self-inflicted wounds.’

‘That wasn’t the question. I have seen self-inflicted
wounds also. I asked you if you had ever known a man
who had tried to disable himself by kicking himself
in the privates. Because that is the nearest sensation
to jaundice and it is a sensation that I believe few women

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A FAREWELL TO AR:\IS

have ever experienced. That was why I asked you if
YOU had ever had jaundice, Miss Van Campen, because
rvliss Van Campen left the room. Later iXIiss Gage
came in.

‘What did you say to Van Campen? She was furious.'

‘We were comparing sensations. I was going to sug-
gest that she had never experienced childbirth

‘You're a fool,’ Gage said. ‘She’s after your scalp.’

‘She has my scalp,’ I said. ‘She’s lost me my leave
and she might try and get me court-martialled. She’s
mean enough.’

‘She never liked you,’ Gage said. ‘What’s it about?’

‘She says I’ve drunk myself into jaundice so as not to
go back to the front.’

‘Pooh,’ said Gage. ‘I’ll swear you’ve never taken a
drink. Ever}^body will swear you’ve never taken a
drink.’

‘She found the bottles.’

‘I’ve told you a hundred times to clear out those bottles.
Where are they now?’

‘In the armoire.’

‘Have you a suitcase?’

‘No. Put them in that rucksack.’

TVliss Gage packed the bottles in the rucksack. T’ll
give them to the porter,’ she said. She started for the
door.

‘Just a minute,’ Miss Van Campen said. ‘I’ll take
those bottles.’ She had the porter with her. ‘Carry
them, please,’ she said. ‘I want to show them to the
doctor when I make my report.’

She went down the hall. The porter carried the sack.
He knew what was in it.

Nothing happened except that I lost my leave.

^55

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

CHAPTER 23

The night I was to return to the front I sent the porter
down to hold a seat for me on the train when it came
from Turin. The train was to leave at midnight. It was
made up at Turin and reached Milan about half-past
ten at night and lay in the station until time to leave.
You had to be there when it came in to get a seat. The
porter took a friend with him, a machine-gunner on
leave who worked in a tailor shop, and was sure that
between them they could hold a place. I gave them money
for platform tickets and had them take my baggage.
There was a big rucksack and tw'O musettes.

I said good-bye at the hospital at about five o’clock
and went out. The porter had my baggage in his lodge
and I told him I would be at the station a little before
midnight. His wife called me ‘Signorino’ and cried.
She wiped her eyes and shook hands and then cried
again. I patted her on the back and she cried once
more. She had done my mending and was a very short
dumpy happy-faced woman with white hair. When she
cried her whole face went to pieces. I went down to
the corner where there was a wine shop and waited inside
looking out the window. It was dark outside and cold
and misty. I paid for my coffee and grappa and I watched
the people going by in the light from the window. I
saw Catherine and knocked on the window. She looked,
saw me and smiled, and I went out to meet her. She
was wearing a dark blue cape and a soft felt hat. We
walked along together, along the sidewalk past the wine
shops, then across the market square and up the street

156 .

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

and through the archway to the cathedral square. There
were street-car tracks and beyond them was the cathedral.
It was white and wet in the mist. We crossed the tram
tracks. On the left were the shops, their windows lighted,
and the entrance to the galleria. There was a fog in the
square and w^hen we came close to the front of the
cathedral it was very big and the stone was wet.

‘Would you like to go in?’

‘No,’ Catherine said. We walked along. There was
a soldier standing with his girl in the shadow of one of
the stone buttresses ahead of us and we passed them.
They were standing tight up against the stone and he
had put his cape around her.

‘They’re like us,’ I said.

‘Nobody is like us,’ Catherine said. She did not mean
it happily.

T wish they had some place to go.’

‘It mightn’t do them any good,’

‘I don’t know. Everybody ought to have some place
to go.’

‘They have the cathedral,’ Catherine said. We were
past it now. We crossed the far end of the square and
looked back at the cathedral. It was fine in the mist.
We were standing in front of the leather goods shop.
There were riding boots, a rucksack and ski boots in
the window. Each article was set apart as an exhibit;
the rucksack in the centre, the riding boots on one side
and the ski boots on the other. The leather was dark
and oiled smooth as a used saddle. The electric light
made high lights on the dull oiled leather.

‘We’ll ski some time.’

‘In two months there will be ski-ing at Miirren,’
Catherine said.

^57

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Let's go there/

‘All right/ she said. We went on past other windows
and turned down a side street.

TVe never been this way/

‘This is the way I go to the hospital/ I said. It was
a narrow street and we kept on the right-hand side.
There were many people passing in the fog. There
were shops and all the windows were lighted. We looked
in a window’ at a pile of cheeses. I stopped in front of an
armourer's shop.

‘Come in a minute. I have to buy a gun.'

‘What sort of gun?’

‘A pistol.’ We went in and I unbuttoned my belt
and laid it with the empty holster on the counter. Tw'o
women were behind the counter. The women brought
out several pistols.

Tt must fit this/ I said, opening the holster. It was
a grey leather holster and I had bought it second-hand
to w’ear in the towm.

‘Have they good pistols?’ Catherine asked.

‘They’re all about the same. Can I try this one?’
I asked the woman.

‘I have no place now to shoot/ she said. ‘But it is
very good. You will not make a mistake with it.’

I snapped it and pulled back the action. The spring
was rather strong but it worked smoothly. I sighted
it and snapped it again.

Tt is used/ the w^oman said. ‘It belonged to an officer
w’ho was an excellent shot.’

‘Did you sell it to him?’

‘Yes,’

‘How did you get it back?’

‘From his orderly.’

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A FAREWELL TO AR^IS

'Maybe yon have mine,’ I said. 'Hov; much is this:'

'Fifty lire. It is very cheap.’

'All right. I want two extra clips and a box of car-
tridges/

She brought them from under the counter.

'Have you any need for a sword?’ she asked. T have
some used swords very cheap.’

T’m going to the front/ I said.

'Oh, yes, then you won’t need a sword,’ she said.

I paid for the cartridges and the pistol, filled the
magazine and put it in place, put the pistol in my empty
holster, filled the extra clips with cartridges and put
them in the leather slots on the holster and then buckled
on my belt. The pistol felt hea\y on the belt. Still, I
thought, it was better to have a regulation pistol. You
could always get cartridges.

'Xow^ we’re fully armed,’ I said. 'That was the one
thing I had to remember to do. Some one got my other
one going to the hospital.’

T hope it’s a good pistol,’ Catherine said.

‘Was there anything else?’ the woman asked.

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘The pistol has a lanyard,’ she said.

‘So I noticed.’ The woman wanted to sell something else.

‘You don’t need a whistle?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

The woman said good-bye and w^e went out on to the
sidewalk. Catherine looked in the wdndowx The woman
looked out and bowed to us.

‘What are those little mirrors set in wood for?’

‘They’re for attracting birds. They twirl them out
in the field and larks see them and come out and the
Italians shoot them.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘They are an ingenious people,’ Catherine said. ‘You
don’t shoot larks do you, darling, in America?’

‘Not especially.’

We crossed the street and started to walk up the other
side.

‘I feel better now,’ Catherine said. ‘I felt terrible
when we started.’

‘We always feel good when we’re together.’

‘We always will be together.’

‘Yes, except that I’m going away at midnight.’

‘Don’t think about it, darling.’

We walked on up the street. The fog made the lights
yellow.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ Catherine asked.

‘How about you?’

‘I’m all right. It’s fun to walk.’

‘But let’s not do it too long.’

‘No.’

We turned down a side street where there were no
lights and walked in the street. I stopped and kissed
Catherine. While I kissed her I felt her hand on my
shoulder. She had pulled my cape around her so it
covered both of us. We were standing in the street
against a high wall.

‘Let’s go some place,’ I said.

‘Good,’ said Catherine. We walked on along the
street until it came out on to a wider street that was
beside a canal. On the other side was a brick wall and
buildings. Ahead, down the street, I saw a street-car
cross a bridge.

‘We can get a cab up at the bridge,’ I said. We stood
on the bridge in the fog waiting for a carriage. Several
street-cars passed, full of people going home. Then

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

a carriage came along but there was some one in it. The
fog was turning to rain.

'We could walk or take a tram/ Catherine said.

'One will be along/ I said. ‘They go by here.’

'Here one comes/ she said.

The driver stopped his horse and lowered the metal
sign on his meter. The top of the carriage was up and
there were drops of water on the driver’s coat. His
varnished hat was shining in the wet. We sat back in
the seat together and the top of the carriage made it
dark.

'Where did you tell him to go?’

'To the station. There’s a hotel across from the station
where we can go.’

'We can go the way we are? Without luggage?’

'Yes/ I said.

It was a long ride to the station up side streets in the
rain.

'Won’t we have dinner?’ Catherine asked. 'I’m afraid
I’ll be hungry.’

'We’ll have it in our room.’

‘I haven’t anything to wear. I haven’t even a night-
gown.’

'We’ll get one/ I said and called to the driver,

'Go to the Via Manzoni and up that.’ He nodded
and turned off to the left at the next comer. On the
big street Catherine watched for a shop.

‘Here’s a place/ she said, I stopped the driver and
Catherine got out, walked across the sidewalk and w^ent
inside. I sat back in the carriage and waited for her.
It was raining and I could smell the wet street and the
horse steaming in the rain. She came back with a package
and got in and we drove on.

L i6i

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T was very extravagant, darling,’ she said, ‘but it’s a
fine nightgown.’

At the hotel I asked Catherine to wait in the carriage
while I went in and spoke to the manager. There were
plenty of rooms. Then I went out to the carriage, paid
the driver, and Catherine and I walked in together.
The small boy in buttons carried the package. The
manager bowed us toward the elevator. There was
much red plush and brass. The manager went up in the
elevator with us.

‘Monsieur and Madame wish dinner in their room?’

‘Yes. Will you have the menu brought up?’ I said.

‘You wish something special for dinner. Some game
or a souffle?’

The elevator passed three floors with a click each time,
then clicked and stopped.

‘What have you as game?’

‘I could get a pheasant, or a woodcock.’

‘A woodcock,’ I said. We walked down the corridor.
The carpet was worn. There were many doors. The
manager stopped and unlocked a door and opened it.

‘Here you are. A lovely room.’

The small boy in buttons put the package on the table
in the centre of the room. The manager opened the
curtains.

‘It is foggy outside,’ he said. The room was fur-
nished in red plush. There were many mirrors, two
chairs and a large bed with a satin coverlet. A door led
to the bathroom.

‘I will send up the menu,’ the manager said. He bowed
and went out.

I went to the window and looked out, then pulled a
cord that shut the thick plush curtains. Catherine was

162

A FAREWELL TO AR.WS

on the bed locLinj^ at tl^e cut chandelier.

She had taken her hat off and her hair shone under the
light. She saw herself in one of the mirrors and put
tier hands to her hair. I saw her in three other mirrors.
She did not look happy. She let her cape fall on the bed,

"What's the matter, darling?’

"I never felt like a whore before/ she said. I went
over to the window and pulled the curtain aside and
looked out. I had not thought it would be like this.

"You’re not a whore.’

T know it, darling. But it isn’t nice to feel like one.’
Her voice was dry and flat.

"This was the best hotel we could get in,’ I said. I
looked out the window. Across the square were the
lights of the station. There were carriages going by
on the street and I saw the trees in the park. The lights
from the hotel shone on the wet pavement. Oh, hell,
I thought, do we have to argue now?

"Come over here, please,’ Catherine said. The flatness
was all gone out of her voice. "Come over, please. Fm
a good girl again.’ I looked over at the bed. She was
smiling.

I went over and sat on the bed beside her and kissed
her.

"You’re my good girl.’

"I’m certainly yours,’ she said.

After we had eaten we felt fine, and then after, we
felt verj" happy and in a little time the room felt like
our own home. My room at the hospital had been our
own home and this room was our home too in the same
way.

Catherine wore my tunic over her shoulders while
we ate. We were very hungr)'' and the meal was good

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

and we drank a bottle of capri and a bottle of St. Estephe.
I drank most of it but Catherine drank some and it
made her feel splendid. For dinner we had a woodcock
with souffie potatoes and puree de marron, a salad and
sbaglioni for dessert.

Tt’s a fine room,’ Catherine said. Tt’s a lovely room.
We should have stayed here all the time we’ve been in
^lilan.’

‘It’s a funny room. But it’s nice.’

‘Vice is a wonderful thing,’ Catherine said. ‘The
people who go in for it seem to have good taste about
it. The red plush is really fine. It’s just the thing. And
the mirrors are very attractive.’

‘You’re a lovely girl.’

‘I don’t know how a room like this would be for
waking up in the morning. But it’s really a splendid
room.’ I poured another glass of St. Estephe.

‘I wish we could do something really sinful,’ Catherine
said. ‘Everything we do seems so innocent and simple.
I can’t believe we do anything wrong.’

‘You’re a grand girl.’

‘I only feel hungry. I get terribly hungry.’

‘You’re a fine simple girl,’ I said.

‘I am a simple girl. No one ever understood it except
you.’

‘Once when I first met you I spent an afternoon
thinking how we would go to the Hotel Cavour together
and how it would be.’

‘That was awfully cheeky of you. This isn’t the
Cavour is it?’

‘No. They wouldn’t have taken us in there.’

‘They’ll take us in some time. But that’s how we
differ, darling. I never thought about anything.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Didn’t yon ever at all?'

*A litticj’ she said.

‘Oil yoiiVe a loveh’ girl.'

I poured another glass of vine.

Tm a ver}^ simple girl,' Catherine said.

T didn't think so at first. I thought vou were a crazy
girld

T was a little crazy. But I wasn’t crazy in any com-
plicated manner. I didn’t confuse you did I, darling?’

'Wine is a grand thing,’ I said. ‘It makes you forget
all the bad.’

Tt’s lovely/ said Catherine. ‘But it’s given my father
gout very badly.’

‘Have you a father?’

‘Yes,’ said Catherine. ‘He has gout. You won’t ever
have to meet him. Haven’t you a father?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘A step-father.’

‘Will I like him?’

‘You won’t have to meet him.’

‘We have such a fine time/ Catherine said. ‘I don’t
take any interest in anything else any more. I’m so
very happy married to you.’

The waiter came and took away the things. After a
while we were very still and w'e could hear the rain.
Down below" on the street a motor car honked.

‘ “And always at my back I hear

Time’s winged chariot hurrying near,” ’

I said.

‘I know that poem/ Catherine said. ‘It’s by Marvell.
But it’s about a girl wLo wouldn’t live with a man.’

My head felt very clear and cold and I wanted to talk
facts.

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Where will you have the baby?’

‘I don’t know. The best place I can fin d,’

‘How will you arrange it?’

‘The best way I can. Don’t worry, darling. We may
have several babies before the war is over.’

‘It’s nearly time to go.’

‘I linow. You can make it time if you want.’

‘No.’

‘Then don’t worry, darling. You were fine until now
and now you are worrying.’

‘I won’t. How often will you write?’

‘Every day. Do they read your letters?’

They can’t read English enough to hurt any.’

‘I’ll make them very confusing,’ Catherine said.

‘But not too confusing.’

‘I’ll just make them a little confusing.’

‘I’m afraid we have to start to go.’

‘All right, darling.’

‘I hate to leave our fine house.’

‘So do I.’

‘But we have to go.’

‘All right. But we’re never settled in our home verv
long.’

‘We will be.’

‘I’ll have a fine home for you when you come back.’
‘Maybe I’ll be back right away.’

‘Perhaps you’ll be hurt just a little in the foot.’

‘Or the lobe of the ear.’

‘No. I want your ears the way they are.’

‘And not my feet?’

‘Your feet have been hit already.’

‘We have to go, darling. Really.’

‘All right. You go first.’

i66

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

CHAPTER 24

We walked down the stairs instead of taking the elevator*
The carpet on the stairs was worn. I had paid for the
dinner when it came up and the waiter, wLo had brought
it, was sitting on a chair near the door. He jumped up
and bowed and I went with him into the side room and
paid the bill for the room. The manager had remem-
bered me as a friend and refused payment in advance
but when he retired he had remembered to have the
waiter stationed at the door so that I should not get
out without paying. I suppose that had happened;
even with his friends. One had so many friends in a
war.

I asked the waiter to get us a carriage and he took
Catherine’s package that I was carrjdng and went out
with an umbrella. Outside through the window we
saw^ him crossing the street in the rain. We stood in
the side room and looked out the window.

‘How do you feel, Cat?’

‘Sleepy.’

‘I feel hollow and hungry.’

‘Have you anything to eat?’

‘Yes, in my musette.’

I saw the carriage coming. It stopped, the horse’s
head hanging in the rain, and the waiter stepped out,
opened his umbrella, and came tow^ard the hotel. We
met him at the door and walked out under the umbrella
down the wet walk to the carriage at the curb. Water
was running in the gutter.

‘There is your package on the seat,’ the waiter said.

167

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

He stood with the umbrella until we were in and I had
tipped him.

‘Many thanks. Pleasant journey,’ he said. The
coachman lifted the reins and the horse started. The
waiter turned away under the umbrella and wnnt to-
ward the hotel. We drove down the street and turned
to the left, then came around to the right in front of
the station. There wxre two carabiniere standing under
the light just out of the rain. The light shone on their
hats. The rain fell clear and transparent against the
light from the station. A porter came out from under the
shelter of the station, his shoulders up against the rain.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Thanks. I don’t need thee.’

He went back under the shelter of the archway. I
turned to Catherine. Her face was in the shadow from
the hood of the carriage.

‘We might as well say good-bye.’

‘I can't go in?’

‘Xo.’

‘Good-bye, Cat.’

‘Will you tell him the hospital?’

‘Yes.’

I told the driver the address to drive to. He nodded.

‘Good-bye,’ I said. ‘Take good care of yourself and
young Catherine.’

‘Good-bye, darling.’

‘Good-bye,’ I said. I stepped out into the rain and
the carriage started. Catherine leaned out and I saw
her face in the light. She smiled and waved. The
carriage went up the street, Catherine pointed in to-
ward the archway. I looked, there were only the two
carabiniere and the archway. I realized she meant for
me to get in out of the rain. I went in and stood and

i68

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

watched the carriage turn the corner. Then I started
through the station and down the runway to the train.

The porter was on the platform looking for me. I
followed him into the train crow^ding past people and
along the aisle and in through a door to where the
machine-gunner sat in the corner of a full compart-
ment. Aly rucksack and musettes w^ere above his head
on the luggage rack. There were many men standing
in the corridor and the men in the compartment all
looked at us when we came in. There were not enough
places in the train and every one wzs hostile. The machine-
gunner stood up for me to sit down. Some one tapped
me on the shoulder. I looked around. It was a very
tall gaunt captain of zrtillery with a red scar along his
jaw. He had looked through the glass on the corridor
and then come in.

‘What do you say?’ I asked. I had turned and faced
him. He w’as taller than me and his face was very thin
under the shadow of his cap-visor and the scar was new
and shiny. Every one in the compartment was looking
at me.

‘You can’t do that,’ he said. ‘You can’t have a soldier
save you a place,’

‘I have done it.’

He swallowed and I saw his Adam’s apple go up
and then down. The machine-gunner stood in front of
the place. Other men looked in through the glass. No
one in the compartment said anything.

‘You have no right to do that. I was here two hours
before you came.’

‘What do you want?’

‘The seat.’

‘So do L’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

I watched his face and could feel the whole com-
partment against me. I did not blame them. He was
in the right. But I wanted the seat. Still no one said
anjthing.

bh, hell, I thought.

‘Sit dowTi, Signor Capitano,’ I said. The machine-
guimer moved out of the way and the tall captain sat
down. He looked at me. His face seemed hurt. ‘ But
he had the seat. ‘Get my things,’ I said to the machine-
gunner. We went out in the corridor. The train was
full and I knew there was no chance of a place. I gave
the porter and the machine-gunner ten lire apiece. They
went down the corridor and outside on the platform
looking in the -windows but there were no places.

‘Maybe some will get off at Brescia,’ the porter said.

‘More will get on at Brescia,’ said the machine-
guimer. I said good-bye to them and we shook hands
and they left. They both felt badly. Inside the train
we were all standing in the corridor when the train
started. I watched the lights of the station and the
yards as we went out. It was still raining and soon the
windows were wet and you could not see out. Later
I slept on the floor of the corridor; first putting my
pocket-book with my money and papers in it inside my
shirt and trousers so that it was inside the leg of my
breeches. I slept all night, waking at Brescia and
Verona wLen more men got on the train, but going back
to sleep at once. I had my head on one of the musettes
and my arms around the other and I could feel the
pack and they could all walk over me if they wouldn’t
step on me. Men w^ere sleeping on the floor all down the
corridor. Others stood holding on to the window rods or
leaning against the doors. That train was always crowded.

170

BOOK III

CHAPTER 25

Xow in the fall the trees were all bare and the roads
were muddy. I rode to Gorizia from Udine on a
camion. We passed other camions on the road and I
looked at the countr^u The mulberry trees were bare
and the fields were browm. There were wet dead leaves
on the road from the rows of bare trees and men were
working on the road, tamping stone in the nits from
piles of crushed stone along the side of the road be-
tween the trees. We saw the town with a mist over it
that cut off the mountains. We crossed the river and I
saw that it was running high. It had been raining in the
mountains. We came into the town past the factories and
then the houses and villas and I saw that many more
houses had been hit. On a narrow street w^e passed a
British Red Cross ambulance. The driver wore a cap
and his face was thin and very tanned. I did not know
him. I got down from the camion in the big square in
front of the Town iXIajor's house, the driver handed down
my rucksack and I put it on and swung on the two musettes
and walked to our villa. It did not feel like a home-coming.

I walked down the damp gravel driveway looking
at the villa through the trees. The windows were all
shut but the door was open. I went in and found the
major sitting at a table in the bare room with maps and
typed sheets of paper on the wall.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How are you?’ He looked older
and drier.

173

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T’m good,’ I said. ‘How is ever3'thing?’

‘It’s all over,’ he said. ‘Take off j^our kit and sit
down.’ I put my pack and the two musettes on the
floor and my cap on the pack. I brought the other chair
over from the wall and sat down by the desk.

‘It’s been a bad summer,’ the major said. ‘Are you
strong now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever get the decorations?’

‘Yes. I got them fine. Thank j'^ou very much.’

‘Let’s see them.’

I opened my cape so he could see the two ribbons.

‘Did you get the boxes with the medals?’

‘No. Just the papers.’

‘The boxes will come later. That takes more time.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘The cars are all away. There are six up north at
Caporetto. You know’ Caporetto?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I remembered it as a little white towm
with a campanile in a valley. It W’as a clean little town
and there was a fine fountain in the square.

They are working from there. There are many sick
now. The fighting is over.’

‘Where are the others?’

There are two up in the mountains and four still
on the Bainsizza. The other two ambulance sections
are in the Carso with the third army.’

‘What do you wish me to do?’

‘You can go and take over the four cars on the
Bainsizza if you like. Gino has been up there a long
time. You haven’t seen it up there, have vou?’

‘No.’ ^ ■

‘It was very bad. We lost three cars.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T heard about it.’

'Yes, Rinaldi wrote you.’

'Where is Rinaldi?’

'He is here at the hospital. He has had a summer

and fall of it.’

T believe it.’

Tt has been bad,’ the major said. 'You couldn’t
believe how bad it’s been. I’ve often thought you were
lucky to be hit when you were.’

T know I was.’

'Next year will be worse,’ the major said. 'Perhaps
they will attack now. They say they are to attack
but I can’t believe it. It is too late. You saw the
river?’

‘Yes. It’s high already.’

T don’t believe they will attack now^ that the rains
have started. We will have the snow" soon. What about
your countJW'men? Will there be other Americans besides
yourself?’

'They are training an army of ten million.’

'I hope w^e get some of them. But the French will
hog them all. We’ll never get any dow'n here. All right.
You stay here to-night and go out to-morrow’ with the
little car and send Gino back. I’ll send somebody with
you that know^s the road. Gino will tell you everjlhing.
They are shelling quite a little still but it is all over.
You will w’ant to see the Bainsizza.’

T’m glad to see it. I am glad to be back with you again,
Signor Maggiore.’

He smiled. 'You are very good to say so. I am veiy^
tired of this w"ar. If I w’as away I do not believe I would
come back.’

'Is it so bad?’

W5

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Yes. It is so bad and worse. Go get cleaned up
and find your friend Rinaldi.’

I went out and carried my bags up the stairs. Rinaldi
was not in the room but his things were there and I
sat down on the bed and unwrapped my puttees and took
tiie shoe off my right foot. Then I lay back on the bed.
I was tired and my right foot hurt. It seemed silly to
lie on the bed with one shoe off, so I sat up and un-
laced the other shoe and dropped it on the floor, then
lay back on the blanket again. The room was stuffy
with the window closed but I was too tired to get up
and open it. I saw my things were all in one corner of
the room. Outside it was getting dark. I lay on the
bed and thought about Catherine and waited for Rinaldi.
I was going to try not to think about Catherine except
at night before I went to sleep. But now I was tired
and there was nothing to do, so I lay and thought about
her. I was thinking about her when Rinaldi came in.
He looked just the same. Perhaps he was a little thinner.

‘Well, baby,’ he said. I sat up on the bed. He came
over, sat down and put his arm around me. ‘Good old
baby.’ He whacked me on the back and I held both
his arms.

‘Old baby,’ he said. ‘Let me see your knee.’

‘I’ll have to take off my breeches.’

‘Take off your breeches, baby. We’re all friends here.
I want to see what kind of a job they did.’ I stood up,
took off the breeches and pulled off the knee-brace.
Rinaldi sat on the floor and bent the knee gently back
and forth. He ran his finger along the scar; put his
thumbs together over the kneecap and rocked the knee
gently with his fingers.

‘Is that all the articulation you have?’

176

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Yes.'

‘It's a crime to send you back. They ought to get
complete articulation.’

‘It's a lot better than it was. It was stiff as a board.’

Rinaldi bent it more. I watched his hands. He had
fine surgeon’s hands. I looked at the top of his head,
his hair shiny and parted smoothly. He bent the knee
too far.

‘Ouch!’ I said.

‘You ought to have more treatment on it with the
machines,’ Rinaldi said.

‘It’s better than it was.’

‘I see that, baby. This is something I know more
about than you.’ He stood up and sat down on the
bed. ‘The knee itself is a good job.’ He was through
with the knee. ‘Tell me all about everything.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I said. ‘I’ve led a quiet life.’

‘You act like a married man,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter
with you?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘This war is killing me,’ Rinaldi said, ‘I am very
depressed bv it.’ He folded his hands over his knee.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘W hat’s the matter? Can’t I even have human impulses?’

‘No. I can see you’ve been having a fine time. Tell
me.’

‘All summer and all fall I’ve operated. I work all
the time. I do everybody’s work. All the hard ones
they leave to me. By God, baby, I am becoming a lovely
surgeon.’

‘That sounds better.’

‘I never think. No, by God, I don’t think ; I operate.’

‘That’s right.’

M

177

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘But now, baby, it’s all over. I don’t operate now
and I feel like hell. This is a terrible war, baby. You
believe me when I say it. Now you cheer me up. Did
you bring the phonograph records?’

‘Yes.’

They were wrapped in paper in a cardboard box in
my rucksack. I was too tired to get them out.

‘Don’t y'ou feel good yourself, baby?’

‘I feel like hell.’

‘This war is terrible,’ Rinaldi said. ‘Come on. We’ll
both get drunk and be cheerful. Then we’ll go get the
ashes dragged. Then we’ll feel fine.’

‘I’ve had the jaundice,’ I said, ‘and I can’t get drunk.’

‘Oh, baby, how you’ve come back to me. You come
back serious and with a liver. I tell you this war is a
bad thing. Why did we make it anyway?’

‘We’ll have a drink. I don’t want to get drunk but
we’ll have a drink.’

Rinaldi went across the room to the washstand and
brought back two glasses and a bottle of cognac.

‘It’s Austrian cognac,’ he said. ‘Seven stars, It’s all
they captured on San Gabriele.’

‘Were you up there?’

‘No. I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve been here all
the time operating. Look, baby, that is your old tooth-
brushing glass. I kept it all the time to remind me of
you.’

‘To remind you to brush your teeth.’

‘No. I have my own too. I kept this to remind me
of you trying to brush away the Villa Rossa from your
teeth in the morning, swearing and eating aspirin and
cursing harlots. Every time I see that glass I think
of you trying to clean your conscience with a toothbrush.’

178

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

He came over to the bed. ‘Kiss me once and tell me
you’re not serious.’

‘I never kiss you. You’re an ape.’

‘I know, you are the fine good Anglo-Saxon boy. I
know. You are the remorse boy, I know. I will wait
till I see the Anglo-Saxon brushing away harlotry with
a toothbrush.’

‘Put some cognac in the glass.’

We touched glasses and drank. Rinaldi laughed at
me.

‘I will get you drunk and take out your liver and put
you in a good Italian liver and make you a man again.’

I held the glass for some more cognac. It was dark
outside now. Holding the glass of cognac, I went over
and opened the window. The rain had stopped falling.
It wus colder outside and there was a mist in the trees.

‘Don’t throw the cognac out the window,’ Rinaldi
said. ‘If you can’t drink it give it to me.’

‘Go and drown yourself,’ I said. I was glad to see
Rinaldi again. He had spent two years teasing me and
I had always liked it. We understood each other very
well.

‘Are you married?’ he asked from the bed. I w'as
standing against the wall by the window.

‘Not yet.’

‘Are YOU in love?’

‘Yes.’

‘With that English girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Poor baby. Is she good to you?’

‘Of course.’

‘I mean is she good to you practically speaking?’

‘Shut up.’

179

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T will. You will see I am a man of extreme delicacy.
Does she - ?’

‘Rinin,’ I said, ‘please shut up. If you want to be my
friend shut up.’

‘I don’t loant to be your friend, baby. I am your
friend.’

‘Then shut up.’

‘All right.’

I went over to the bed and sat down beside Rinaldi.
He was holding his glass and looking at the floor.

‘You see how it is, Rinin?’

‘Oh, yes. All my life I encounter sacred subjects.
But very few with you. I suppose you must have them
too.’ He looked at the floor.

‘You haven’t any?’

‘No.’

‘Not any?’

‘No.’

‘I can say this about your mother and that about your
sister?’

‘And that about your sister,’ Rinaldi said swiftly. We
both laughed.

‘The old superman,’ I said.

‘I am jealous maybe,’ Rinaldi said.

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I don’t mean like that. I mean something else. Have
you any married friends?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I haven’t,’ Rinaldi said. ‘Not if they love each other.’

‘Why not?’

‘They don’t like me.’

‘Why not?’

‘I am the snake. I am the snake of reason.’

i8o

A FAREWELL TO AR3.IS

WouVe ^!:£etting it mixed. The apple was reason.’

'Xo, it was the snake.’ He was more cheerful.

'You are better when you don’t think so deeply/ I

said.

T love you, baby,’ he said. ‘You puncture me when
I become a great Italian thinker. But I know many
tilings I can’t say. I know more than you.’

'Yes. You do.’

‘But you will have a better time. Even with remorse
you will have a better time.’

T don’t think so.’

‘Oh, yes. That is true. Already I am only happy
when I am working.’ He looked at the floor again.

‘You’ll get over that.’

‘Xo. I only like two other things; one is bad for my
work and the other is over in half an hour or fifteen
minutes. Sometimes less.’

‘Sometimes a good deal less.’

‘Perhaps I have improved, baby. You do not know.
But there are only the two things and my work.’

‘You’ll get other things.’

‘Xo. We never get argvthing. We are born with all
we have and we never learn. We never get anjthing
new. We all start complete. You should be glad not
to be a Latin.’

‘There’s no such thing as a Latin. That is “Latin”
thinking. You are so proud of your defects.’ Rinaldi
looked up and laughed.

‘We’ll stop, baby. I am tired from thinking so much.’
He had looked tired wEen he came in. Tt’s nearly time
to eat. I’m glad you’re back. You are my best friend
and my war brother.’

‘When do the war brothers eat?’ I asked.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Right away. We’ll drink once naore for your liver’s
sake.’

‘Like Saint Paul.’

‘You are inaccurate. That was wine and the stomach.
Take a little wine for your stomach’s sake.’

‘Whatever you have in the bottle,’ I said. ‘For any
sake you mention.’

‘To your girl,’ Rinaldi said. He held out his glass.

‘All right.’

‘I’ll never say a dirty thing about her.’

‘Don’t strain yourself.’

He drank off the cognac. ‘I am pure,’ he said. ‘I am
like you, baby. I will get an English girl too. As a matter
of fact I knew your girl first but she was a little tall for
me. A tall girl for a sister,’ he quoted.

‘You have a lovely pure mind,’ I said.

‘Haven’t I? That’s why they call me Rinaldo
Purissimo.’

‘Rinaldo Sporchissimo.’

‘Come on, baby, we’ll go down to eat while my mind
is still pure.’

I washed, combed my hair and we went down the
stairs. Rinaldi was a little drunk. In the room where
we ate, the meal was not quite ready.

‘I’ll go get the bottle,’ Rinaldi said. He went off
up the stairs. I sat at the table and he came back with
the bottle and poured us each a half tumbler of cognac.

‘Too much,’ I said and held up the glass and sighted
at the lamp on the table.

‘Not for an empty stomach. It is a wonderful thing.
It bums out the stomach completely. Nothing is worse
for you.’

‘All right.’

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'Seif-destruction day by day/ Rinaldi said. Tt mins
the stomacli and makes the hand shake. Just the thing

for a surgeon.’

'You recommend it?’

'Heartily. I use no other. Drink it down, baby, and
look forward to being sick.’

I drank half the glass. In the hall I could hear the
orderly calling, 'Soup! Soup is ready!’

The major came in, nodded to us and sat down. He
seemed very small at table.

Ts this all we are?’ he asked. The orderly put the
soup bowl down and he ladled out a plateful.

'We are all,’ Rinaldi said. 'Unless the priest comes.
If he knew Federico was here he would be here.’

'Where is he?’ I asked.

'He’s at 307,’ the major said. He was busy with his
soup. He wiped his mouth, wiping his upturned grey
moustache carefully. ‘He will come I think. I called
them and left word to tell him you were here.’

'I miss the noise of the mess,’ I said.

'Yes, it’s quiet,’ the major said.

T will be noisy,’ said Rinaldi.

'Drink some wine, Enrico,’ said the major. He filled
my glass. The spaghetti came in and we were ail busy.
We were finishing the spaghetti when the priest came
in. He was the same as ever, small and brown and com-
pact-looking. I stood up and w^e shook hands. He put
his hand on my shoulder.

T came as soon as I heard,’ he said.

'Sit down,’ the major said. 'You’re late.’

'Good evening, priest,’ Rinaldi said, using the English
word. They had taken that up from the priest-baiting
captain who spoke a little English, 'Good evening,

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Rinaldi,’ the priest said. The orderly brought him
soup but he said he would start with the spaghetti.

‘How are you?’ he asked me.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘How have things been?’

‘Drink some wine, priest,’ Rinaldi said. ‘Take a little
wine for your stomach’s sake. That’s Saint Paul, you
know.’

‘Yes I know,’ said the priest politely. Rinaldi filled
his glass.

‘That Saint Paul,’ said Rinaldi. ‘He’s the one who
makes all the trouble.’ The priest looked at me and
smiled. I could see that the baiting did not touch him
now.

‘That Saint Paul,’ Rinaldi said. ‘He was a rounder
and a chaser and then when he was no longer hot he
said it was no good. When he w'as finished he made
the rules for us who are still hot. Isn’t it true, Federico?’

The major smiled. We were eating meat stew now.

‘I never discuss a Saint after dark,’ I said. The priest
looked up from the stew and smiled at me.

‘There he is, gone over with the priest,’ Rinaldi said.
‘Where are all the good old priest-baiters? Where is
Cavalcanti? Where is Brundi? Where is Cesare? Do
I have to bait this priest alone without support?’

‘He is a good priest,’ said the major.

‘He is a good priest,’ said Rinaldi. ‘But still a priest.
I tr)- to make the mess like the old days. I want to make
Federico happy. To hell with you, priest!’

I saw the major look at him and notice that he was
drunk. His thin face was white. The line of his hair
was verj^ black against the white of his forehead.

‘It’s all right, Rinaldo,’ said the priest. ‘It’s all
right.’

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'To hell with you/ said Rinaldi. ‘To hell with the
whole damn business.' He sat back in his chair.

‘He’s been under a strain and he’s tired/ the major
said to me. He finished his meat and wiped up the
gravy with a piece of bread.

T don’t give a damn/ Pvinaldi said to the table. ‘To
hell with the whole business.’ He looked defiantly
around the table, his eyes flat, his face pale.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘To hell wdth the whole damn
business.’

‘No, no,’ said Rinaldi. ‘You can’t do it. A'ou can’t
do it. I say you can’t do it. You’re dry and you’re
empty and there’s nothing else. There’s nothing else I
tell you. Not a damned thing. I know, whon I stop
working.’

The priest shook his head. The orderly took away
the stew dish.

‘What are you eating meat for?’ Rinaldi turned to the
priest. ‘Don’t you know- it’s Friday?’

‘It’s Thursday,’ the priest said.

‘It’s a lie. It’s Friday. You’re eating the body of
our Lord. It’s God-meat. I loiow. It’s dead Austrian.
That’s what you’re eating.’

'The white meat is from officers,’ I said, completing
the old joke.

Rinaldi laughed. He filled his glass.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I’m just a little crazy.’

‘You ought to have a leave/ the priest said.

The major shook his head at him. Rinaldi looked at
the priest.

‘You think I ought to have a leave?’

The major shook his head at the priest. Rinaldi was
looking at the priest.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Just as you like,’ the priest said. ‘Not if you don’t want.’

‘To hell with you,’ Rinaldi said. ‘They try to get
rid of me. Every night they try to get rid of me. I fight
them off. WTiat if I have it. Everybody has it. The
whole world’s got it. First,’ he went on, assuming the
manner of a lecturer, ‘it’s a little pimple. Then we
notice a rash between the shoulders. Then we notice
nothing at all. We put our faith in mercury.’

‘Or salvarsan,’ the major interrupted quietly.

‘A mercurial product,’ Rinaldi said. He acted very
elated now. ‘I know something worth two of that.
Good old priest,’ he said. ‘You’ll never get it. Baby
will get it. It’s an industrial accident. It’s a simple
industrial accident.’

The orderly brought in the sweet and coffee. The
sweet was a sort of black bread pudding with hard sauce.
The lamp was smoking; the black smoke going close up
inside the chimney.

‘Bring two candles and take away the lamp,’ the major
said. The orderly brought two lighted candles each
in a saucer, and took out the lamp blowing it out. Rinaldi
was quiet now. He seemed all right. We talked and
after the coffee we all went out into the hall.

‘You want to talk to the priest. I have to go in the
town,’ Rinaldi said. ‘Good-night, priest.’

‘Good-night, Rinaldo,’ the priest said.

‘I’ll see you, Fredi,’ Rinaldi said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Come in early.’ He made a face and
went out the door. The major was standing with us.
‘He’s very tired and overworked,’ he said. ‘He thinks
too he has syphilis. I don’t believe it but he may have.
He is treating himself for it. Good-night. You will
leave before daylight, Enrico?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

"^Good-bye then/ he said. ^Good luck. Peduzzi will
wake you and go with you,’

* Good-bye, Signor Maggiore.’

* Good-bye. They talk about an Austrian offensive
but I don’t believe it, I hope not. But anyway it won’t
be here. Gino will tell you everything. The telephone
works well now.’

T’ll call regularly.’

‘Please do. Good night. Don’t let Rinaldi drink so
much brandy,’

T’ll try not to.’

‘Good-night, priest.’

‘Good-night, Signor Maggiore.’

He went off into his office.

CHAPTER 26

I WENT to the door and looked out. It had stopped
raining but there was a mist.

‘Should we go upstairs?’ I asked the priest.

T can only stay a little while.’

‘Come on up.’

We climbed the stairs and went into my room. I lay
dovm on Rinaldi’s bed. The priest sat on my cot that
the orderly had set up. It was dark in the room.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘how are you really?’

T’m all right. I’m tired to-night.’

T’m tired too, but from no cause.’

‘What about the war?’

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T think it will be over soon. I don’t know why, but
I feel it.’

‘How do you feel it?’

‘You know how your major is? Gentle? Many people
are like that now.’

‘I feel that way myself,’ I said.

‘It has been a terrible summer,’ said the priest. He
was surer of himself now than when I had gone away.
‘You cannot believe how it has been. Except that you
have been there and you know how it can be. Many
people have realized the war this summer. Officers
whom I thought could never realize it realize it
now.’

‘What will happen?’ I stroked the blanket with my
hand.

‘I do not know but I do not think it can go on much
longer.’

‘What will happen?’

‘Thev will stop fighting.’

‘Who?’

‘Both sides.’

‘I hope so,’ I said.

‘You don’t believe it?’

‘I don’t believe both sides will stop fighting at once.’

‘I suppose not. It is too much to expect. But when
I see the changes in men I do not think it can go on.’

‘Who won the fighting this summer?’

‘No one.’

‘The Austrians w'on,’ I said. ‘They kept them from
taking San Gabriele. They’ve won. They won’t stop
fighting.’

If they feel as we feel they may stop. They have
gone through the same thing.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

"So one ever stopped when they were winning/

'You discourage me/

T can only say what I think/

'Then you think it will go on and on? Nothing will
ever happen?*

T don’t know. I only think the Austrians will not
stop when they have won a victory. It is in defeat that
we become Christian/

'The Austrians are Christians except for the Bos-
nians/

T don’t mean technically Christian. I mean like Our
Lord/

He said nothing.

'We are all gentler now because we are beaten. How
would Our Lord have been if Peter had rescued Him in
the Garden?’

‘He would have been just the same.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘Y'ou discourage me,’ he said. T believe and I pray
that something will happen. I have felt it very close.’

‘Something may happen,’ I said. ‘But it will happen
only to us. If they felt the way w'e do, it would be all
right. But they have beaten us. They feel another
way.’

‘Alany of the soldiers have always felt this way. It
is not because they were beaten.’

‘They were beaten to start with. They were beaten
when they took them from their farms and put them
in the army. That is why the peasant has wisdom, be-
cause he is defeated from the start. Put him in power
and see how wise he is.’

He did not say anything. He was thinking.

‘Now I am depressed myself,’ I said. ‘That’s why

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I never think about these things. I never think and
yet when I begin to talk I say the things I have found
out in my mind without thinking.’

T had hoped for something.’

‘Defeat?’

‘No. Something more.’

‘There isn’t anything more. Except victory. It may
be worse.’

‘I hoped for a long time for victory.’

‘Me too.’

‘Now I don’t know.’

‘It has to be one or the other.’

‘I don’t believe in victory any more.’

‘I don’t. But I don’t believe in defeat. Though it
may be better.’

‘Wliat do you believe in?’

‘In sleep,’ I said. He stood up.

‘I am very sorry to have stayed so long. But I like
so to talk with you.’

‘It is very nice to talk again. I said that about sleeping,
meaning nothing.’

We stood up and shook hands in the dark.

‘I sleep at 307 now,’ he said.

‘I go out on post early to-morrow.’

‘I’ll see you when you come back.’

‘We’ll have a walk and talk together.’ I walked with
him to the door.

Don’t go down,’ he said. ‘It is very nice that you
are back. Though not so nice for you.’ He put his hand
on my shoulder.

‘It’s all right for me,’ I said. ‘Good-night.’

‘Good-night. Ciaou!’

‘Ciaou!’ I said. I was deadly sleepy.

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CHAPTER 27

I WOKE when Rinaldi came in but he did not talk and I
went back to sleep again. In the morning I was dressed and
gone before it was light, Rinaldi did not wake when I left.

I had not seen the Bainsizza before and it was strange
to go up the slope where the Austrians had been, beyond
the place on the river where I had been wounded. There
was a steep new road and many trucks. Beyond the
road flattened out and I saw’ w^oods and steep hills in
the mist. There W’ere woods that had been taken quickly
and not smashed. Then beyond w’here the road was
not protected by the hills it w-as screened by matting
on the sides and over the top. The road ended in a
wrecked village. The lines w’ere up beyond. There
was much artillery around. The houses were badly
smashed but things were very w’ell organized and there
w'ere signboards everywhere. We found Gino and he
got us some coffee and later I w^ent with him and met
various people and saw the posts. Gino said the British
cars w’ere w'orking further dowm the Bainsizza at Ravne.
He had great admiration for the British, There W’as
still a certain amount of shelling, he said, but not many
w’ounded. There w’ould be many sick now’ the rains had
started. The Austrians w’ere supposed to attack but
he did not believe it. We were supposed to attack too,
but they had not brought up any new’ troops so he
thought that was off too. Food w’as scarce and he w’ould
be glad to get a full meal in Gorizia. What kind of
supper had I had? I told him and he said that would
be wonderful. He was especially impressed by the

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doles, I did not describe it in detail, only said it was a
dolce^ and I think he believed it was something more
elaborate than bread pudding.

Did I know where he was going to go? I said I didn’t
but that some of the other cars were at Caporetto. He
hoped he would go up that way. It was a nice little
place and he liked the high mountain hauling up beyond.
He was a nice boy and every one seemed to like him.
He said where it really had been hell was at San Gabriele
and the attack beyond Lorn that had gone bad. He
said the Austrians had a great amount of artillery in the
woods along Ternova ridge beyond and above us, and
shelled the roads badly at night. There was a battery of
naval guns that had gotten on his nerves . I would recognize
them because of their flat trajectory. You heard the report
and then the shriek commenced almost instantly. They
usually fired two guns at once, one right after the other,
and the fragments from the burst were enormous. He
showed me one, a smoothly jagged piece of metal over a
foot long. It looked like babbiting metal.

‘I don’t suppose they are so effective,’ Gino said.
‘But they scare me. They all sound as though they
came directly for you. There is the boom, then instantly
the shriek and burst. What’s the use of not being wounded
if they scare you to death?’

He said there were Croats in the lines opposite us
now and some Magyars. Our troops were still in the
attacking positions. There was no wire to speak of and
no place to fall back to if there should be an Austrian
attack. There were fine positions for defence along the
low mountains that came up out of the plateau but
nothing had been done about organizing them for defence.
What did I think about the Bainsizza anyway?

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

I had expected it to be flatter, more like a plateau. I
had not realized it was so broken up.

'Alta piano, ^ Gino said, 'but no piano.’

We went back to the cellar of the house where he
lived. I said I thought a ridge that flattened out on
top and had a little depth would be easier and more
practical to hold than a succession of small mountains.
It was no harder to attack up a mountain than on the
level, I argued. 'That depends on the mountains,’ he
said. ‘Look at San Gabriele.’

A"es,’ I said, ‘but w^here they had trouble was at the
top where it was fiat. They got up to the top easy
enough,’

‘Not so easy,’ he said.

A^es/ I said, ‘but that was a special case because
it was a fortress rather than a mountain amway. The
Austrians had been fortlAinr it for years.’ I meant
tactically speaking in a war where there w’as some
movement. A succession of mountains were nothing to
hold as a line because it was too easy to turn them.
You should have possible mobility and a mountain is
not Y&Tj mobile. Also, people always over-shoot down
hill. If the flank were turned, the best men would be
left on the highest mountains. I did not believe in a
war in mountains. I had thought about it a lot, I said.
Y'ou pinched off one mountain and they pinched off an-
other but when something really started every one had
to get down off the mountains.

‘What were you going to do if you had a mountain
frontier?’ he asked.

T had not worked that out yet,’ I said, and we both
laughed. ‘But,’ I said, ‘in the old days the Austrians
were always whipped in the quadrilateral around Verona.
N 193

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

They let them come down on to the plain and -whipped
them there/

'Yes/ said Gino. ‘But those were Frenchmen and
you can work out military^ problems clearly when you
are fighting in somebody else’s countr^u’

'Yes/ I agreed, ‘when it is your own country you
cannot use it so scientifically/

‘The Russians did, to trap Napoleon/

‘Yes, but they had plenty of country. If you tried
to retreat to trap Napoleon in Italy you would find
yourself in Brindisi.'

‘A terrible place/ said Gino. ‘Have you ever been
there?'

‘Not to stay/

T am a patriot/ Gmo said. ‘But I cannot love Brindisi
or Taranto/

‘Do you love the Bainsizza?' I asked.

‘The soil is sacred/ he said. ‘But I wish it grew more
potatoes. You know when we came here w^e found fields
of potatoes the Austrians had planted.’

‘Has the food really been short?’

T myself have never had enough to eat but I am a
big eater and I have not starved. The mess is average.
The regiments in the line get pretty good food but those
in support don’t get so much. Something is wrong
somewhere. There should be plenty of food.’ /

‘The dogfish are selling it somewhere else.’

‘Yes, they give the battalions in the front line as much
as they can but the ones in back are very short. They
have eaten all the Austrians’ potatoes and chestnuts
from the woods. They ought to feed them better. We
are big eaters. I am sure there is plenty of food. It
is very bad for the soldiers to be short of food. Have

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

you ever noticed the difference it makes in the way you

think?’

‘Yes/ I said. Yt can’t win a war but it can lose

one.’

YVe Avon’t talk about losing. There is enough talk
about losing. What has been done this summer cannot
have been done in vain.’

I did not say an}i:hing. I was always embarrassed
by the words sacred, glorious and sacrifice and the ex-
pression in vain. We had heard them, sometimes stand-
ing in the rain almost out of earshot, so that only the
shouted words came through, and had read them, on
proclamations that were slapped up by billposters over
other proclamations, now for a long time, and I had
seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious
had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stock-
yards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat
except to bury it. There were many words that you
could not stand to hear and finally only the names of
places had dignity. Certain numbers were the same
way and certain dates and these with the names of the
places were all you could say and have them mean any-
thing. Abstract words such as glory, honour, courage,
or hallow were obscene beside the concrete names of
villages, the numbers of roads, the names of rivers, the
numbers of regiments and the dates. ,Gino was a patriot,
so he said things that separated us sometimes, but he
was also a fine boy and I understood his being a patriot.
He was bom one. He left with Peduzzi in the car to go
back to Gorizia.

It stormed all that day. The wind drove down the
rain and everywhere there was standing water and
mud. The plaster of the broken houses was grey and

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

wet. Late in the afternoon the rain stopped and from
our number two post I saw the bare wet autumn country
with clouds over the tops of the hills and the straw
screening over the roads wet and dripping. The sun
came out once before it went dowm and shone on the
bare woods beyond the ridge. There were many Austrian
guns in the woods on that ridge but only a few fired.
I watched the sudden round puffs of shrapnel smoke
in the sky above a broken farmhouse near where the
line was; soft puffs with a yellow- white flash in the centre.
You saw the flash, then heard the crack, then saw the
smoke ball distort and thin in the wind. There were
many iron shrapnel balls in the rubble of the houses
and on the road beside the broken house where the
post was, but they did not shell near the post that after-
noon. We loaded two cars and drove down the road
that was screened with wet mats and the last of the sun
came through in the breaks between tlie strips of
matting. Before we were out on the clear road behind
the hill the sun w’as dovm. We went on dowm the
clear road and as it turned a comer into the open and
went into the square arched tunnel of matting the rain
started again.

The wind rose in the night and at three o’clock in the
morning with the rain coming in sheets there wns a
bombardment and the Croatians came over across the
mountain meadows and through patches of woods and
into the front line. They fought in the dark in the rain
£md a counter-attack of scared men from the second
line drove them back. There was much shelling and
many rockets in the rain and machine-gun and rifle
fire all along the line. They did not come again and it
was quieter and between the gusts of wind and rain

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we could hear the sound of a great bombardment far

to the north.

The wounded were coming into the post, some were
carried on stretchers, some walking and some were
brought on the backs of men that came across the field.
They were wet to the skin and all were scared. We
filled two cars with stretcher cases as they came up from
the cellar of the post and as I shut the door of the second
car and fastened it I felt the rain on my face turn to
snow. The flakes were coming heavy and fast in the
rain.

When daylight came the storm w^as still blowing but
the snow had stopped. It had melted as it fell on the
wet ground and now it was raining again. There was
another attack just after da3dight but it was unsuccess-
ful. Wq expected an attack all day but it did not come
until the sun was going down. The bombardment
started to the south below the long wooded ridge where
the Austrian guns were concentrated. We expected a
bombardment but it did not come. It was getting dark.
Guns were firing from the field behind the village and
the shells, going away, had a comfortable sound.

We heard that the attack to the south had been un-
successful. They did not attack that night but we heard
that they had broken through to the north. In the night
word came that we v/ere to prepare to retreat. The cap-
tain at the post told me this. He had it from the Brigade.
A little while later he came from the telephone and
said it was a lie. The Brigade had received orders that
the line of the Bainsizza should be held no matter what
happened. I asked about the break through and he
said that he had heard at the Brigade that the Austrians
had broken through the twenty-seventh army corps

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up toward Caporetto. There had been a great battle
in the north ail day.

Tf those bastards let them through we are cooked/

he said.

Tt’s Germans that are attacking/ one of the medical
officers said. The word Germans was something to be
frightened of. We did not want to have anything to do
with the Germans.

® There are fifteen divisions of Germans/ the medical
officer said. ^They have broken through and we will be
cut off.’

Wt the Brigade they say this line is to be held. They
say they have not broken through badly and that
we will hold a line across the mountains from Monte
Maggiore.’

‘"Where do they hear this?’

‘From the Division.’

‘The word that we were to retreat came from the
Division.’

‘We work under the Army Corps,’ I said. ‘But here
I work under you. Naturally when you tell me to go I
will go. But get the orders straight.’

‘The orders are that we stay here. You clear the
wounded from here to the clearing station.’

‘Sometimes we clear from the clearing station to
the field hospitals too,’ I said. ‘Tell me, I have never
seen a retreat - if there is a retreat how are all the wounded
evacuated?’

‘They are not. They take as many as they can and
leave the rest.’

‘What will I take in the cars?’

‘Hospital equipment.’

‘All right,’ I said.

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Tile next night the retreat started. We heard that
Germans and Austrians had broken through in the
north and were coming down the mountain valleys to-
ward Cividale and Udine. The retreat was orderly,
wet and sullen. In the night, going slowly along the
crowded roads we passed troops marching under the
rain, guns, horses pulling wagons, mules, motor trucks,
all moving away from the front. There was no more
disorder than in an advance.

That night we helped empty the field hospitals that
had been set up in the least rained villages of the plateau,
taking the wounded down to Plava on the river-bed:
and the next day hauled all day in the rain to evacuate
the hospitals and clearing station at Plava. It rained
steadily and the army of the Bainsizza moved down
off the plateau in the October rain and across the river
where the great victories had commenced in the spring
of that year. We came into Gorizia in the middle of
the next day. The rain had stopped and the town was
nearly empty. As we came up the street they were loading
the girls from the soldiers’ whorehouse into a truck.
There were seven girls and they had on their hats and
coats and carried small suitcases. Two of them were
cnfing. Of the others one smiled at us and put out her
tongue and fluttered it up and down. She had thick
full lips and black eyes.

I stopped the car and went over and spoke to the matron.
The girls from the officers’ house had left early that
morning, she said. Where were they going? To
Conegliano, she said. The truck started. The girl with
thick lips put out her tongue again at us. The matron
waved. The two girls kept on cixdng. The others looked
interestedly out at the town. I got back in the car.

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AVe ought to go with them/ Bonello said. ‘That

would be a good trip.’

‘Well have a good trip/ I said.

‘Well have a heli of a trip.’

‘That’s what I mean/ I said. We came up the drive

to the villa,

T’d like to be there when some of those tough babies
climb ill.’

‘You think they will?’

‘Sure. Eveiy’body in the Second Army know^s that
matron.’

We were outside the villa.

‘They call her the Alother Superior/ Bonello said.
‘The girls are new but everybody know^s her. They
must have brought them up just before the retreat.’

‘Theyll have a time.’

‘I’ll say theyll have a time. I’d like to have a crack
at them for nothing. They charge too much at that
house amw’ay. The government gyps us.’

‘Take the car out and have the mechanics go over
it/ I said. ‘Change the oil and check the differential.
Fill it up and then get some sleep.’

‘Yes, Signor Tenente.’

The villa was empty. Rinaldi was gone with the
hospital. The major w’as gone taking hospital personnel
in the staff car. There was a note on the window for
me to fill the cars wdth the material piled in the hall and
to proceed to Pordenone. The mechanics w^ere gone
already. I went out back to the garage. The other two
cars came in while I w^as there and their drivers got
down. It was starting to rain again.

I m so — sleepy I went to sleep three times coming here
from Plava/ Piani said. ‘What are w^e going to do, Tenente?’

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'We’II change the oil, grease them, fill them up, then
take them around in front and load up the junk theyh^e
left/

‘Then do we start?’

‘No, we’ii sleep for three hours/

‘Christ, I’m glad to sleep/ Bonello said. ‘I couldn’t
keep awake driving/

‘How’s your car, Aymo?’ I asked.

‘It’s all right.’

‘Get me a monkey suit and I’ll help you with the

oil/

‘Don’t you do that, Tenente,’ Aymo said. ‘It’s nothing
to do. You go and pack your things/

‘?vly things are all packed/ I said. ‘I’ll go and carry
out the stuff that they left for us. Bring the cars around
as soon as they’re ready.’

They brought the cars around to the front of the
villa and we loaded them with the hospital equipment
which Avas piled in the hallway. When it was all in,
the three cars stood in line down the driveway under the
trees in the rain. We went inside.

‘Alake a fire in the kitchen and dry your things/ I
said.

‘I don’t care about dry clothes/ Piani said. T want
to sleep.’

‘I’m going to sleep on the major’s bed/ Bonello said.

T don’t care where I sleep/ Piani said.

‘There are two beds in here/ I opened the door,

T never knew what was in that room/ Bonello said.

‘That was old fish-face’s room,’ Piani said.

‘You two sleep in there,’ I said. ‘I’ll wake you/

‘The Austrians will wake us if you sleep too long,
Tenente/ Bonello said.

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T won\ oversleep/ I said. ‘Where’s Aymo?’

‘He went out in the kitchen.’

‘Get to sleep,’ I said.

T’ll sleep,’ Piani said. ‘I’ve been asleep sitting up
ail day. The whole top of my head kept coming down
over my eyes.’

‘Take your boots off,’ Bonello said. ‘That’s old
fish-face’s bed.’

‘Fish-face is nothing to me.’ Piani lay on the bed,
his muddy boots straight out, his head on his arm. I
went out to the kitchen. Ajnno had a fire in the stove
and a kettle of water on.

‘I thought I’d start some pasta asciutta^ he said.
‘We’ll be hungr}’’ when we wake up.’

‘Aren’t you sleepy, Bartolomeo?’

‘Not so sleepy. When the water boils I’ll leave it.
The fire will go down.’

‘You’d better get some sleep,’ I said. ‘We can eat
cheese and monkey meat.’

‘This is better,’ he said. ‘Something hot will be good
for those two anarchists. You go to sleep, Tenente.’

‘There’s a bed in the major’s room.’

‘You sleep there.’

‘No, I’m going up to my old room. Do you want
a drink, Bartolomeo?’

‘When we go, Tenente. Now it wouldn’t do me any
good.’

‘If you wake in three hours and I haven’t called you,
wake me, will you?’

‘I haven’t any watch, Tenente.’

‘There’s a clock on the wall in the major’s room.’

‘All right.’

I went out then through the dining-room and the

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hall and up the marble stairs to the room where I had
lived with Rinaldi. It was raining outside. I went
to the window and looked out. It was getting dark and
I saw the three cars standing in line under the trees.
The trees were dripping in the rain. It was cold and
the drops hung to the branches. I went back to Rinaldi’s
bed and lay down and let sleep take me.

We ate in the kitchen before we started. Aymo had
a basin of spaghetti with onions and tinned meat chopped
up in it. We sat around the table and drank tw^o bottles
of the wine that had been left in the cellar of the villa.
It was dark outside and still raining, Piani sat at the
table very sleepy.

T like a retreat better than an advance,’ Bonello said.
'On a retreat we drink barbera.’

‘We drink it now. To-morrow maybe we drink rain-
water,’ Aymo said.

‘To-morrow we’ll be in Udine. We’ll drink cham-
pagne. That’s where the slackers live. Wake up, Piani!
We’ll drink champagne to-morrow in Udine!’

‘I’m awake,’ Piani said. He filled his plate with the
spaghetti and meat. ‘Couldn’t you find tomato sauce,
Barto?’

‘There wasn’t any,’ Aymo said.

‘We’II drink champagne in Udine/ Bonello said. He
filled his glass with the clear red barbera.

‘Have you eaten enough, Tenenter’ Aymo asked.

‘I’ve got plenty. Give me the bottle, Bartolomeo.’

T have a bottle apiece to take in the cars/ Aymo said.

‘Did you sleep at all?’

T don’t need much sleep. I slept a little.’

‘To-morrow we’ll sleep in the king’s bed/ Bonello
said. He was feeling very good.

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Til sleep with the queen/ Boneilo said. He looked
to see how I took the joke.

'Shut up/ I said. ‘You get too funny with a little
wine/ Outside it was raining hard. I looked at my
watch. It was half-past nine.

Tt’s time to roll/ I said and stood up.

'Who are you going to ride wdth, Tenente?’ Boneilo
asked.

‘With Aymo. Then you come. Then Piani. Well
start out on the road for Cormons.’

‘Fm afraid 111 go to sleep/ Piani said.

‘All right. Ill ride with you. Then Boneilo. Then
Aymo.’

‘That’s the best way/ Piani said. ‘Because I’m so
sleepy.’

‘I’ll drive and you sleep awhile.’

‘No. I can drive just so long as I know somebody will
wake me up if I go to sleep.’

Til wake you up. Put out the lights, Barto.’

‘You might as well leave them/ Boneilo said. ‘We’ve
got no more use for this place.’

‘I have a small locker trunk in my room/ I said. ‘Will
you help take it down, Piani?’

‘We’ll take it,’ Piani said. ‘Come on, Aldo.’ He
went off into the hall with Boneilo. I heard them going
upstairs.

‘This was a fine place,’ Bartolomeo Aymo said. He
put two bottles of wine and half a cheese into his haver-
sack. ‘There won’t be a place like this again. Where
will they retreat to, Tenente?’

‘Beyond the Tagliamento, they say. The hospital and
the sector are to be at Pordenone.’

‘This is a better town than Pordenone.’

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T don’t know Pordenone/ I said. TVe just been
through there,’

Tt’s not much of a place/ Aymo said.

CHAPTER 28

As we moved out through the town it was empty in
the rain and the dark except for columns of troops and
guns that were going through the main street. There
were many trucks too and some carts going through on
other streets and converging on the main road. When
we were out past the tanneries onto the main road the
troops, the motor trucks, the horse-drawn carts and the
guns were in one wide slow-moving column. We moved
slowly but steadily in the rain, the radiator cap of our
car almost against the tailboard of a truck that was
loaded high, the load covered with wet canvas. Then
the truck stopped. The whole column was stopped. It
started again and we went a little farther, then stopped.
I got out and walked ahead, going between the trucks
and carts and under the wet necks of the horses. The
block was farther ahead. I left the road, crossed the
ditch on a footboard and walked along the field beyond
the ditch. I could see the stalled column beUveen the
trees in the rain as I went forward across from it in
the field. I went about a mile. The column did not
move, although on the other side beyond the stalled
vehicles I could see the troops moving. I went back
to the cars. This block might extend as far as Udine.
Piani was asleep over the wheel. I climbed up beside

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him and went to sleep too. Several hours later I heard
the truck ahead of us grinding into gear. I woke Piani
and we started, moving a few yards, then stopping,
then going on again. It was still raining.

The column stalled again in the night and did not
start. I got down and w'ent back to see Aymo and
Bonello. Bonello had two sergeants of engineers on
the seat of his car with him. They stiffened when I
came up.

‘They were left to do something to a bridge,’ Bonello
said. ‘They can’t find their unit so I gave them a ride.’

‘Wuth the Sir Lieutenant’s permission.’

‘With permission,’ I said.

‘The lieutenant is an American,’ Bonello said. ‘He’ll
give anybody a ride.’

One of the sergeants smiled. The other asked Bonello
if I w’as an Italian from North or South America.

‘He’s not an Italian. He’s North American English.’

The sergeants were polite but did not believe it. I
left them and went back to Aymo. He had two girls
on the seat with him and was sitting back in the comer
and smoking.

‘Barto, Barto,’ I said. He laughed.

‘Talk to them, Tenente,’ he said. ‘I can’t understand
them. Hey!’ he put his hand on the girl’s thigh and
squeezed it in a friendly way. The girl drew her shawl
tight around her and pushed his hand away. ‘Heyl’
he said. ‘Tell the Tenente your name and what you’re
doing here.’

The girl looked at me fiercely. The other girl kept
her eyes down. The girl who looked at me said some-
thing in a dialect I could not understand a word of.
She was plump and dark and looked about sixteen.

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^Sorella?’ I asked and pointed at the other girL

She nodded her head and smiled.

'All right/ I said and patted her knee. I felt her
stiffen away when I touched her. The sister never
looked up. She looked perhaps a year younger. Aymo
put his hand on the elder girFs thigh and she pushed it
away. He laughed at her.

^Good man/ he pointed at himself. 'Good man/ he
pointed at me. 'Don^t you worry.’ The girl looked at
him fiercely. The pair of them were like two wild birds.

'What does she ride with me for if she doesn’t like
me?’ Aymo asked. ‘They got right up in the car the
minute I motioned to them.’ He turned to the girl.
‘Don’t worry%’ he said. ‘No danger of-/ using
the wlgar word. ‘No place for-.’ I could see she
understood the w’ord and that w^as all. Her eyes looked
at him very scared. She pulled the shawl tight. ‘Car
all full/ xAymo said. ‘No danger of-. No place for-.’
Every time he said the word the girl stiffened a little.
Then sitting stiffly and looking at him she began to cry.
I saw her lips w^orking and then tears came down her
plump cheeks. Her sister, not looking up, took her hand
and they sat there together. The older one, w^ho had been
so fierce, began to sob.

T guess I scared her/ Ajino said. ‘I didn’t mean to
scare her.’

Bartolomeo brought out his knapsack and cut off
tw^o pieces of cheese. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Stop crying.’

The older girl shook her head and still cried, but the
younger girl took the cheese and commenced to eat.
After a while the younger girl gave her sister the second
piece of cheese and they both ate. The older sister still
sobbed a little.

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‘She’ll be all right after a while,’ Ajino said.

An idea came to him. ‘Virgin?’ he asked the girl next
to him. She nodded her head vigorously. ‘Virgin too?’
he pointed to the sister. Both the girls nodded their
heads and the elder said something in dialect.

‘That’s all right,’ Bartolomeo said. ‘That’s all
right.’

Both the girls seemed cheered.

I left them sitting together with Aymo sitting back
in the comer and went back to Piani’s car. The column
of vehicles did not move but the troops kept passing
alongside. It was still raining hard and I thought some
of the stops in the movement of the column might be
from cars with wet wiring. More likely they were
from horses or men going to sleep. Still, traffic could
tie up in cities when every one was aw'ake. It was the
combination of horse and motor vehicles. They did not
help each other any. The peasants’ carts did not help
much either. Those w^ere a couple of fine girls with
Barto. A retreat was no place for tw'o virgins. Real
virgins. Probably very religious. If there were no
war we would probably all be in bed. In bed I lay me
down my head. Bed and board. Stiff as a board in
bed. Catherine was in bed now between two sheets,
over her and under her. Which side did she sleep on?
Alaybe she wasn’t asleep. Maybe she was lying think-
ing about me. Blow', blow, ye western wind. Well, it
blew and it wasn’t the small rain but the big rain down
that rained. It rained all night. You knew it rained
dovm that rain. Look at it. Christ, that my love were
in my arms and I in my bed again. That my love Cath-
erine. That my sweet love Catherine dovm might rain.
Blow her again to me. Well, we were in it. Every one

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was caught in it and the small rain would not quiet it.
'Good-rdght, Catherine/ I said out loud. 'I hope you
sleep well. If it’s too uncomfortable, darling, lie on the
other side/ I said, T’ll get you some cold water. In a
little while it will be morning and then it won’t be so
bad. I’m sorry he makes you so uncomfortable. Try
and go to sleep, sweet.’

I was asleep all the time, she said. You’ve been talk-
ing in your sleep. iVre you all right

Are you really there?

Of course, Fm here. I wouldn’t go away. This doesn’t
make any difference between us.

You’re so lovely and sweet. You wouldn’t go away
in the night, would you?

Of course I v;ouIdn’t go away. Fm always here. I
come whenever you want me.

' — Piani said. 'They’ve started again.’

T was dopey,’ I said. I looked at my watch. It was
three o’clock in the morning. I reached back behind the
seat for a bottle of the barbera.

'You talked out loud,’ Piani said.

T was having a dream in English,’ I said.

The rain \vas slacking and we were moving along.
Before daylight we were stalled again and when it was
light we were at a little rise in the ground and I saw the
road of the retreat stretched out far ahead, everything
stationary except for the infantry filtering through. We
started to move again but seeing the rate of progress in
the daylight, I knew we were going to have to get off
that main road some way and go across country if we
ever hoped to reach Udine.

In the night many peasants had joined the column
from the roads of the country and in the column there

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A FAREWELL TO ARAIS

were carts loaded with household goods; there were
mirrors projecting up between mattresses, and chickens
and ducks tied to carts. There was a sewing machine
on the cart ahead of us in the rain. They had saved
the most valuable things. On some carts the women sat
huddled from the rain and others w^alked beside the
carts keeping as close to them as they could. There were
dogs now in the column, keeping under the wagons as
they moved along. The road was muddy, the ditches at
the side were high with water and beyond the trees that
lined the road the fields looked too wet and too soggy
to try" to cross. I got down from the car and worked
up the road a Ava}", looking for a place vrhere I could see
ahead to find a side-road we could take across country.
I knew there were many side-roads but did not want one
that would lead to nothing. I could not remember them
because we had always passed them bowling along in
the car on the main road and they all looked much
alike. Xow I knew we must find one if we hoped to
get through. Xo one knew where the Austrians were
nor how things were going but I was certain that if the
rain should stop and planes come over and get to work
on that column that it would be all over. All that was
needed was for a few men to leave their trucks or a few
horses to be killed to tie up completely the movement
on the road.

The rain was not falling so heavily now and I thought
it might clear. I went ahead along the edge of the road
and when there was a small road that led off to the
north between two fields with a hedge of trees on both
sides, I thought that we had better take it and hurried
back to the cars. I told Piani to turn off and went back
to tell Bonello and Aymo.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'If it leads nowhere we can turn around and cut back
ind I said*

about these?' Bonello asked. His two sergeants
were beside him on the seat. They were unshaven
blit still miiitar}’^ looking in the early morning.

'They’ll be good to push/ I said. I went back to
Aymo and told him we were going to try it across country.

'What about my virgin family?' Aymo asked. The
two girls were asleep.

'They won't be very useful/ I said. 'You ought to
have some one that could push.'

'They could go back in the car/ Aymo said. 'There's
room in the car.'

'All right if you want them/ I said. 'Pick up somebody
with a wide back to push/

'Bersaglieri/ Aymo smiled. 'They have the widest
backs. They measure them. How do you feel, Tenente?’

'Fine. How are you?'

'Fine. But very hungry/

'There ought to be something up that road and we
will stop and eat.’

'How's your leg, Tenente?’

'Fine,' I said. Standing on the step and looking up
ahead I could see Piani’s car pulling out onto the little
side-road and starting up it, his car showing through
the hedge of bare branches. Bonello turned off and
followed him and then Piani worked his way out and
we followed the two ambulances ahead along the narrow
road between hedges. It led to a farmhouse. We found
Piani and Bonello stopped in the farmyard. The house
was low and long with a trellis with a grape-vine over
the door. There was a vrell in the yard and Piani was
getting up water to fill his radiator. So much going

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

in low gear had boiled it out. The farmhouse was deserted.
I looked back down the road, the farmhouse was on a
slight elevation above the plain, and we could see over
the country, and saw the road, the hedges, the fields
and the line of trees along the main road where the
retreat was passing. The two sergeants were looking
through the house. The girls were awake and looking
at the courtyard, the well and the tw^o big ambulances
in front of the farmhouse, with three drivers at the well.
One of the sergeants came out with a clock in his hand.

Tut it back,’ I said. He looked at me, went in the
house and came back without the clock.

‘Where’s your partner?’ I asked.

‘He’s gone to the latrine.’ He got up on the seat of
the ambulance. He was afraid we would leave him.

‘What about breakfast, Tenente?’ Eonello asked.
‘We could eat something. It wouldn’t take very long.’

‘Do you think this road going down on the other
side will lead to anything?’

‘Sure.’

‘All right. Let’s eat.’ Piani and Bonello went in the
house.

‘Come on,’ Aymo said to the girls. He held his hand
to help them down. The older sister shook her head.
They were not going into any deserted house. They
looked after us.

‘They are difficult,’ Aymo said. We went into the
farmhouse together. It was large and dark and aban-
doned feeling. Bonello and Piani were in the kitchen.

‘There’s not much to eat,’ Piani said. ‘They’ve cleaned
it out.’

Bonello sliced a big white cheese on the heavy kitchen
table.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Where was the cheese?’

Tii the cellar. Piani found wine too and apples.’

'That’s a good breakfast.’

Fiaiii was taking the wooden cork out of a big wicker-
covered wine-jug. He tipped it and poured a copper

pan full.

Tt smelis all right,’ he said. ‘Find some beakers,

Barto.’

The two sergeants came in.

‘Have some cheese, sergeants,’ Bonello said.

‘We should go,’ one of the sergeants said, eating his
cheese and drinking a cup of wine.

‘We’ll go. Don’t worr}’,’ Bonello said.

‘An army travels on its stomach,’ I said.

‘What?’ asked the sergeant.

Tt’s better to eat.’

‘Yes. But time is precious.’

‘I believe the bastards have eaten already,’ Piani
said. The sergeants looked at him. They hated the lot
of us.

‘You know the road?’ one of them asked me.

‘Xo,’ I said. They looked at each other.

‘We would do best to start,’ the first one said.

‘We are starting,’ I said. I drank another cup of
the red wine. It tasted very good after the cheese and
apple.

‘Bring the cheese,’ I said and went out. Bonello came
out carrying the great jug of wine.

‘That’s too big,’ I said. He looked at it regretfully.

T guess it is,’ he said. ‘Give me the canteens to fill.’
He filled the canteens and some of the wine ran out on
the stone paving of the courtyard. Then he picked up
the wine jug and put it just inside the door.

^^3

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'The Austrians can find it without breaking the door
down/ he said.

AYell roll/ I said. Tiani and I will go ahead.’ The
two engineers were already on the seat beside Bonello.
The girls were eating cheese and apples. Aymo was
smoking. We started off down the narrow road. I
looked back at the two cars coming and the farmhouse.
It was a fine, low, solid stone house and the ironwork
of the well was very good. Ahead of us the road was
narrow and muddy and there was a high hedge on either
side. Behind, the cars were following closely.

CHAPTER 29

At noon we were stuck in a muddy road about, as nearly
as we could figure, ten kilometres from Udine. The
rain had stopped during the forenoon and three times
we had heard planes coming, seen them pass overhead,
watched them go far to the left and heard them bombing
on the main high road. We had worked through a network
of secondary roads and had taken many roads that were
blind, but had always, by backing up and finding another
road, gotten closer to Udine. Now, Aymo’s car, in
backing so that we might get out of a blind road, had
gotten into the soft earth at the side and the wheels,
spinning, had dug deeper and deeper until the car rested
on its differential. The thing to do now was to dig out
in front of the wheels, put in brush so that the chains
could grip, and then push until the car was on the road.
We were all down on the road around the car. The

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tViO sergeants looked at the car and examined the wheels,
Then they started oiT down the road without a word.
I went after them,

'Come on/ I said, ‘Cut some brush d

AVe have to go/ one said.

‘Get busy/ I said, 'and cut brush.’

AVe have to go/ one said. The other said nothing.
They were in a hurry^ to start. They would not look at me.

T order you to come back to the car and cut brush/
I said. The one sergeant turned, AVe have to go on.
In a little while you will be cut off. You can’t order
us. You’re not our officer.’

T order you to cut brush/ I said. They turned and
started down the road.

‘Halt/ I said. They kept on down the muddy road,
the hedge on either side. T order you to halt/ I called.
They went a little faster. I opened up my holster, took
the pistol, aimed at the one who had talked the most,
and fired. I missed and they both started to run. I
shot three times and dropped one. The other went
through the hedge and was out of sight. I fired at him
through the hedge as he ran across the field. The pistol
clicked empty and I put in another clip. I saw it was
too far to shoot at the second sergeant. He was far across
the field, running, his head held low. I commenced to
reload the empty clip. Bonello came up.

‘Let me go finish him,’ he said, I handed him the
pistol and he walked down to where the sergeant of
engineers lay face down across the road. Bonello leaned
over, put the pistol against the man’s head and pulled
the trigger. The pistol did not fire.

‘You have to cock it,’ I said. He cocked it and fired
twice. He took hold of the sergeant s legs and pulled

ai5

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

him to the side of the road so he lay beside the hedge.
He came back and handed me the pistol.

‘The son of a bitch,’ he said. He looked toward the
sergeant. ‘You see me shoot him, Tenente?’

‘We’ve got to get the brush quickly,’ I said. ‘Did
I hit the other one at all?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Ajmio said. ‘He was too far away
to hit with a pistol.’

‘The dirty scum,’ Piani said. We \vere all cutting
twigs and branches. Everj-thing had been taken out
of the car. Bonello was digging out in front of the wheels.
When we were ready Aymo started the car and put
it into gear. The wheels spun round throwing brush
and mud. Bonello and I pushed until we could feel our
joints crack. The car wmuld not move.

‘Rock her back and forth, Barto,’ I said.

He drove the engine in reverse, then forward. The
wheels only dug in deeper. Then the car was resting
on the differential again, and the wheels spun freely in
the holes they had dug. I straightened up.

‘We’ll tiy her with a rope,’ I said.

‘I don’t think it’s any use, Tenente. You can’t get
a straight pull.’

‘We have to try it,’ I said. ‘She won’t come out any
other way.’

Piani’s and Bonello’s cars could only move straight
ahead down the narrow road. We roped both cars to-
gether and pulled. The wheels only pulled sideways
against the ruts.

‘It’s no good,’ I shouted. ‘Stop it.’

Piani and Bonello got down from their cars and came
back. Aymo got down. The girls were up the road about
forty yards sitting on a stone wall.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

^What do you say, Tenente?’ Bonello asked.

AVedl dig out and try once more with the brush/
I said. I looked down the road. It was my fault. I
had led them up here. The sun was almost out from
behind the clouds and the body of the sergeant lay beside
the hedge.

'Well put his coat and cape under/ I said. Bonello
went to get them. I cut brush and Aymo and Piani
dug out in front and between the wheels. I cut the
cape, then ripped it in t'wo, and laid it under the wheel
in the mud, then piled brush for the wheels to catch.
We were ready to start and Aymo got up on the seat
and started the car. The wheels spun and we pushed
and pushed. But it wasn’t any use.

Tt’s finished,’ I said. Ts there anything you want
in the car, Barto?’

Aymo climbed up with Bonello, carrying the cheese
and two bottles of wine and his cape. Bonello, sitting
behind the wheel was looking through the pockets of
the sergeant’s coat.

'Better throw the coat away,’ I said. 'What about
Barto ’s virgins?’

'They can get in the back,’ Piani said. T don’t think
we are going far.’

I opened the back door of the ambulance.

'Come on,’ I said. 'Get in/ The two girls climbed
in and sat in the corner. They seemed to have taken no
notice of the shooting. I looked back up the road. The
sergeant lay in his dirty long-sleeved underwear. I
got up with Piani and we started. We were going to
try to cross the field. When the road entered the field
I got down and walked ahead. If we could get across,
there was a road on the other side. We could not get

217

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

across. It was too soft and muddy for the cars. When
they were finally and completely stalled, the wheels
dug in to the hubs, we left them in the field and started on
foot for Udine.

When we came to the road which led back toward
the main highway I pointed down it to the two girls.

‘Go down there,’ I said. ‘You’ll meet people.’ They
looked at me. I took out my pocket-book and gave them
each a ten-lira note. ‘Go down there,’ I said, pointing.
‘Friends! Family!’

They did not understand but they held the money
tightly and started down the road. They looked back
as though they were afraid I might take the money
back. I watched them go down the road, their shawls
close around them, looking back apprehensively at us.
The three drivers were laughing.

‘How much will you give me to go in that direction,
Tenente?’ Bonello asked.

‘They’re better off in a bunch of people than alone
if they catch them,’ I said.

‘Give me two hundred lire and I’ll walk straight
back toward Austria,’ Bonello said.

‘They’d take it away from you,’ Piani said.

‘Maybe the war will be over,’ Aymo said. We were
going up the road as fast as we could. The sun was
trying to come through. Beside the road were mul-
berry trees. Through the trees I could see our two big
moving- vans of cars stuck in the field. Piani looked
back too.

‘They’ll have to build a road to get them out,’ he
said.

‘I wish to Christ we had bicycles,’ Bonello said.

‘Do they ride bicycles in America?’ Aymo asked.

ai8

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

^Tiiey used tod

^Here it is a great thing/ Aymo said. ‘A bicycle is
a splendid thing.’

T wish to Christ we had bicycles/ Bonello said. T’m
no walker.’

Ts that firing?’ I asked. I thought I could hear firing
a long way away.

T don’t know/ Aymo said. He listened.

T think so/ I said.

'The first thing we will see will be the cavalry/ Piani
said.

T don’t think they’ve got any cavalry/

T hope to Christ not/ Bonello said. T don’t want
to be stuck on a lance by any cavalry.’

'You certainly shot that sergeant, Tenente/ Piani
said. We were walking fast.

T killed him/ Bonello said. T never killed anybody
in this war, and all my life I’ve wanted to kill a sergeant/

'You killed him on the sit all right/ Piani said. 'He
wasn’t flying very fast when you killed him.’

'Never mind. That’s one thing I can always remember.
I killed that — of a sergeant,’

'What will you say in confession?’ Aymo asked.

T’li say, Bless me, father, I killed a sergeant.’ They
all laughed,

'He’s an anarchist/ Piani said. ‘He doesn’t go to
church.’

'Piani’s an anarchist too,’ Bonello said.

'Are you really anarchists?’ I asked.

'No, Tenente. We’re socialists. We come from
Imola ’

'Haven't you ever been there?’

'No.’

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘By Christ it’s a fine place, Tenente. You come there
after the war and w'e’Il show you something.’

‘Are you all socialists?’

‘Everybody.’

‘Is it a fine town?’

‘Wonderful. You never saw a town like that.’

‘How did you get to be socialists?’

‘We’re all socialists. Everybody is a socialist. We’ve
always been socialists.’

‘You come, Tenente. We’ll make you a socialist
too.’

Ahead the road turned off to the left and there was
a little hill and, beyond a stone wall, an apple orchard.
As the road went uphill they ceased talking. We walked
along together all going fast against time.

CHAPTER 30

L-^ter we were on a road that led to a river. There
was a long line of abandoned trucks and carts on the
road leading up to the bridge. No one was in sight.
The river was high and the bridge had been blown up
in the centre; the stone arch was fallen into the river
and the brown water was going over it. We went on
up the bank looking for a place to cross. Up above I
knew there was a railway bridge and I thought we
might be able to get across there. The path was wet
and muddy. We did not see any troops; only aban-
doned trucks and stores. Along the river bank there
was nothing and no one but the wet brush and muddy

220

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

^iTfound. We went up to the bank and finally we saw
the railway bridge.

^What a beautiful bridge/ Aymo said. It was a long
plain iron bridge across what was usually a dry river-bed .

'We better hurry and get across before they blow it
up/ I said.

'There's nobody to blow it up/ Piani said. 'They're
all gone.'

'It's probably mined/ Bonello said. 'You cross first,
Tenente.'

'Listen to the anarchist/ Aymo said. 'Make him go
first.'

'I'll go/ I said. 'It won't be mined to blow up with
one man.'

'You see/ Piani said. 'That is brains. Why haven't
you brains, anarchist?'

'If I had brains I wouldn’t be here,' Bonello said.

'That's pretty good, Tenente,’ Aymo said.

'That's pretty good,’ I said. We were close to the
bridge now. The sky had clouded over again and it
was raining a little. The bridge looked long and solid.
We climbed up the embankment.

'Come one at a time,’ I said and started across the
bridge. I watched the ties and the rails for any trip-
wires or signs of explosive but I saw nothing. Down
below the gaps in the ties the river ran muddy and fast.
Ahead across the wet countryside I could see Udine in
the rain. Across the bridge I looked back. Just up the
river w^as another bridge. As I watched, a yellow mud-
coloured motor-car crossed it. The sides of the bridge
were high and the body of the car, once on, was out of
sight. But I saw the heads of the driver, the man on
the seat with him, and the tw^o men on the rear seat.

Z21

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

They all wore German helmets. Then the car was over
the bridge and out of sight behind the trees and the
abandoned vehicles on the road. I waved to Aymo
who was crossing and to the others to come on. I climbed
dowTi and crouched beside the railway embankment.
Aymo came down with me.

^Did you see the car?’ I asked.

^Xo. We were watching you.’

M German staff car crossed on the upper bridge.’

hA staff car?’

^Holy M^ryV

The others came and we all crouched in the mud be-
hind the embankment, looking across the rails at the
bridge, the line of trees, the ditch and the road.

‘Do you think we’re cut off then, Tenente?’

T don’t know. All I know is a German staff car went
along that road.’

‘You don’t feel funny, Tenente? You haven’t got
strange feelings in the head?’

‘Don’t be funny, Bonello.’

‘What about a drink?’ Piani asked. ‘If we’re cut
off we might as well have a drink.’ He unhooked his
canteen and uncorked it.

‘Look! Look!’ Aymo said and pointed toward the
road. Along the top of the stone bridge we could see
German helmets moving. They were bent forward and
moved smoothly, almost supernaturally, along. As
they came off the bridge we saw them. They were
bicycle troops. I saw the faces of the first two. They
were ruddy and healthy-looking. Their helmets came
low down over their foreheads and the side of their
faces. Their carbines were clipped to the frame of the

22Z

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

bicycles. Stick bonibs him,:; handle down thdr

belts. Their helmets and their erey uniforms v.ere uet
and they rode easily, looking ahead and to both sides.
Thxme were tv^o-then four in line, then two, then a!«-
inost a dozen; then another dozen -“then one alone.
They did not talk but we could not have heard them
because of the noise from the river. They were gone
out of sight up the road.

'Holy Alart'd Aymc srdd.

'They were Germans,' Piar: said. 'Those weren't
Austrians.’

'Why isn't there somebody here to stop them?' I
said. 'Why haven’t they blown the bridge up? Why
aren't there machine-guns along this embankment?'

'You tell us, Tcnente,' Boneiio said.

I was very’ ^ngry.

'The whole bloody thing is crazy. Down below they
blow up a little bridge. Here they leave a bridge on
the main road. Where is evety’body? Don’t they try
and stop them at all?’

Y^'ou tell us, Tenente/ Bonello said. I shut up. It
was none of my business; all I had to do was to get to
Pordenone with three ambulances. I had failed at that.
All I had to do now was get to Pordenone. I probably
could not even get to Udine. The hell I couldn't. The
thing to do was to be calm and not get shot or captured.

'Didn’t you have a canteen open?’ I asked Piani.
He handed it to me. I took a long drink. 'We might
as well start/ I said. 'There’s no hurry though. Do
you want to eat something?’

'This is no place to stay/ Bonello said.

'All right. We’ll start.’

'Should we keep on this side - out of sight?’

2Z3

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Well be better off on top. They may come along
this bridge too. W’e don’t vrant them on top of us before
we see them/

We walked along the railroad track. On both sides
of us stretched the wet plain. Ahead across the plain
was the hill of Udine. The roofs fell away from the
castle on the hill. We could see the campanile and the
clock-tower. There were many mulberrj^ trees in the
fields. Ahead I saw a place where the rails were torn
up. The ties had been dug out too and thrown down
the embankment.

'Down! down!’ Aynno said. We dropped down beside
the embankment. There was another group of bicyclists
passing along the road, I looked over the edge and saw
them go on.

'They saw us but they went on/ Aymo said.

'We’ll get killed up there, Tenente,’ Bonello said.

'They don’t want us/ I said, 'They’re after some-
thing else. We’re in more danger if they should come
on us suddenly.’

'Fd rather walk here out of sight,’ Bonello said.

'All right. We’ll walk along the tracks.’

'Do you think we can get through?’ Aymo asked.

'Sure. There aren’t very many of them yet. We’ll
go through in the dark.’

'What was that staff car doing?’

'Christ knows/ I said. We kept on up the tracks.
Bonello tired of walking in the mud of the embankment
and came up with the rest of us. The railway moved
south away from the highvray now and we could not
see what passed along the road. A short bridge over
a canal was blown up but we climbed across on what
was left of the span. We heard firing ahead of us.

224

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

We came up on the railway beyond the canai. It
went oil straight toward the town across the low fields.
We could see the line of the other railway ahead of us.
To the north was the main road where we had seen the
cyclists; to the south there was a small branch-road
across the fields with thick trees on each side. I thought
we had better cut to the south and work around the
town that way and across country* toward Campoformio
and the main road to the Tagliamento. We could avoid
the main line of the retreat by keeping to the secondary*
roads beyond Udine. I knew there were plenty of side-
roads across the plain. I started down the embankment.

^Come onf I said. We would make for the side-
road and work to the south of the town. We all started
down the embankment. A shot was fired at us from the
side-road. The bullet went into the mud of the embank-
ment.

^Go on back/ I shouted. I started up the embank-
ment, slipping in the mud. The drivers were ahead of
me. I went up the embankment as fast as I could go.
Two more shots came from the thick brush and Aymo,
as he was crossing the tracks, lurched, tripped and fell
face down. We pulled him down on the other side and
turned him over. *His head ought to be uphill/ I said.
Piani moved him around. He lay in the mud on the
side of the embankment, his feet pointing downhill,
breathing blood irregularly. The three of us squatted
over him in the rain. He was hit low in the back of the
neck and the bullet had ranged upward and come out
under the right e}*e. He died while I was stopping up
the two holes, Piani laid his head down, wiped at his face
with a piece of the emergency dressing, then let it alone.

‘The bastards,' he said.
p 225

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘They weren’t Germans,’ I said. ‘There can’t be any
Germans over there.’

‘Italians,’ Piani said, using the word as an epithet,
‘ Italian! !’ Bonello said nothing. He was sitting beside
Aymo, not looking at him. Piani picked up A;^Tno’s
cap where it had rolled down the embankment and put
it over his face. He took out his canteen.

‘Do you want a drink?’ Piani handed Bonello the
canteen.

‘No,’ Bonello said. He turned to me. ‘That might
have happened to us any time on the railway tracks.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It was because we started across the
field.’

Bonello shook his head. ‘Aymo’s dead,’ he said.
‘Who’s dead nest, Tenente? Where do we go now?’

‘Those were Italians that shot,’ I said. ‘They weren’t
Germans.’

‘I suppose if they were Germans they’d have killed
all of us,’ Bonello said.

‘We are in more danger from Italians than Germans,’
I said. ‘The rear guard are afraid of everything. The
Germans know what they’re after.’

‘You reason it out, Tenente,’ Bonello said.

‘Where do we go now?’ Piani asked.

‘We better lie up some place till it’s dark. If we could
get south we’d be all right.’

‘They’d have to shoot us all to prove they were right
the first time,’ Bonello said. ‘I’m not going to try
them.’

‘We’ll find a place to lie up as near to Udine as we
can get and then go through when it’s dark.’

‘Let’s go then,’ Bonello said. We went down the
north side of the embankment. I looked back. Aymo

226

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

!av in the niud within the angle of the embankment. He
was quite small and his arms were by his side, his puttee-
v/rapped legs and muddy boots together, his cap over
his face. He looked very dead. It was raining. I had
li]:ed him as well as any one I ever knew. I had his
papers in my pocket and would write to his family.

Ahead across the fields was a farmhouse. There were
trees around it and the farm buildings were built against
the house. There was a balcony along the second floor
held up by columns.

AVe better keep a little way apart/ I said. Til go
ahead.’ I started toward the farmhouse. There was a
path across the field.

Crossing the field, I did not know but that someone
would fire on us from the trees near the farmhouse or
from the farmhouse itself. I walked toward it, seeing
it veiy'^ clearly. The balcony of the second floor merged
into the barn and there was hay coming out between
the columns. The courtyard was of stone blocks and
all the trees were dripping with the rain. There was a
big empty two-wheeled cart, the shafts tipped high up
in the rain, I came to the courtyard, crossed it, and
stood under the shelter of the balcony. The door of the
house was open and I went in. Bonello and Piani came
in after me. It was dark inside. I went back to the
kitchen. There were ashes of a fire on the big open
hearth. The pots hung over the ashes, but they were
empty. I looked around but I could not find amrthing
to eat.

AVe ought to lie up in the bam/ I said. you

think you could find anything to eat, Piani, and bring
it up there?’

Til look,’ Piani said.

ZZ7

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Fil look too,’ Bonelio said.

‘A!i right,’ I said. T’il go up and look at the bam.’
I found a stone stairway that went up from the stable
underneath. The stable smelt dn,- and pleasant in the
rain. The cattle were all gone, probably driven off when
they left. The barn was half full of hay. There were two
windows in the roof, one was blocked with boards,
the other was a narrow dormer window on the north
side. There was a chute so that hay might be pitched
down to the cattle. Beams crossed the opening down
into the main floor where the hay carts drove in when
the hay was hauled in to be pitched up. I heard the
rain on the roof and smelled the hay, and, when I went
down, the clean smell of dried dung in the stable. We
could pry a board loose and see out of the south window
down into the courtyard. The other window looked
out on the field toward the north. We could get out of
either window onto the roof and down, or go down
the hay chute if the stairs were impracticable. It was
a big bam and we could hide in the hay if we heard any-
one. It seemed like a good place. I was sure we could
have gotten through to the south if they had not fired
on us. It was impossible that there were Germans
there. They were coming from the north and down
the road from Cividale. They could not have come
through from the south. The Italians were even more
dangerous. They were frightened and firing on any-
thing they saw. Last night on the retreat we had heard
that there had been many Germans in Italian uniforms
mixing with the retreat in the north. I did not believe
it. That was one of those things you always heard in
the war. It was one of the things the enemy always
did to you. You did not know anyone who went over

228

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

in German uniform to confuse them. Maybe they
did but it sounded difficult. I did not believe the
Germans did it. I did not believe they had to. There
was no need to confuse our retreat. The size of the
army and the fewness of the roads did that. Nobody
gave any orders, let alone Germans. Still, they would
shoot us for Germans. They shot Aymo. The hay
smelled good and lying in a barn in the hay took away
all the years in between. We had lain in hay and
talked and shot sparrows with an air-rifle when they
perched in the triangle cut high up in the wall of the
barn. The bam was gone now and one year they had
cut the hemlock woods and there were only stumps,
dried tree-tops, branches and fireweed where the woods
had been. A"ou could not go back. If you did not go
forward what happened? You never got back to Alilan.
And if you got back to Milan what happened? I listened
to the firing to the north toward Udine. I could hear
machine-gun firing. There was no shelling. That was
something. They must have gotten some troops along
the road. I looked down in the half-light of the hay
barn and saw Piani standing on the hauling floor. He had
a long sausage, a jar of something and two bottles of
wine under his arm,

‘Come up,’ I said. ‘There is the ladder.’ Then I
realized that I should help him with the things and
went down. I was vague in the head from lying in the
hay. I had been nearly asleep.

‘Where’s Bonello?’ I asked.

Til tell you,’ Piani said. We went up the ladder.
Up on the hay we set the things down. Piani took out
his knife vith the corkscrew' and drew the cork of a
wine-bottle.

2^9

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'They have secJing-vax on it/ he said. Tt must be
good/ He smiied.

"Where’s Bonelior’ I asked.

Piani looked at me.

"He went away, Tenente,’ he said. "He wanted to be

a prisoner.’

I did not say anj^iliing.

"He was afraid we would get killed.’

I held the bottle of wine and did not say anything.

"You see we don’t believe in the war anjW'ay, Tenente.’

‘Why didn’t yon go?’ I asked.

T did not want to leave you.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘I don’t know, Tenente. He vrent away.’

‘Ail right,’ I said. ‘Will you cut the sausage?’

Piani looked at me in the half-Kght.

‘I cut it while we were talking,’ he said. We sat in
the hay and ate the sausage and drank the wine. It
must have been wine they had saved for a w^edding. It
was so old that it was losing its colour.

‘You look out of this window, Luigi,’ I said. ‘I’ll go
look out the other window.’

We had each been drinking out of one of the bottles
and I took my bottle with me and went over too and lay
flat on the hay and looked out the narrow window at
the wet country. I do not know what I expected to
see, but I did not see anyi:hing except the fields and the
bare mulberry trees and the rain falling, I drank the
wine and it did not make me feel good. They had kept
it too long and it had gone to pieces and lost its quality
and colour. I watched it get dark outside; the darkness
came very quickly. It w^ould be a black night with the
rain. When it was dark there was no use watching any

230

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

r-iorc% so I vrent over to Piani. He was lying asleep and
I did not wake him but sat down beside him for a w^hile.
i!e a big man and he slept heavily. After a while I
woke him and we started.

That was a very strange night. I do not know what
I had expected - death perhaps, and shooting in the dark,
and running, but nothing happened. We waited, lying
flat beyond the ditch along the main road wLile a German
battalion passed, then when they were gone we crossed
the road and went on to the north. We were very close
to Germans twice in the rain but they did not see us.
We got past the town to the north without seeing any
Italians, then after a while came on the main channels
of the retreat and walked all night toward the Tagliamento.
I had not realized how gigantic the retreat was. The
whole country’ was moving, as well as the army. We
walked all night, making better time than the vehicles.
My leg ached and I was tired but we made good time.
It seemed so silly for Bonello to have decided to be
taken prisoner. There was no danger. We had walked
through two armies without incident. If Aymo had
not been killed there would never have seemed to be
any danger. No one had bothered us when we were
in plain sight along the railway. The killing came sud-
denly and unreasonably. I wondered where Bonello
was.

'How do YOU feel, Tenente?’ Piani asked. We were

going along the side of a road crowded with vehicles
and troops.

‘Fine.’

‘I’m tired of this walking.’

‘Well, all w’e have to do is walk now. We don’t have
to worry.’

231

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

^Bonello was a fool/

'He was a fool all right.’

'What will you do about him, Tenente?’

T don’t know.’

'Can’t you just put him down as taken prisoner?’

T don’t know.’

'You see if the war went on they w'ould make bad
trouble for his family.’

'The war won’t go on,’ a soldier said, 'We’re going
home. The war is over.’

'Eveiy'body’s going home.’

'We’re ail going home.’

'Come on, Tenente,’ Piani said. He wanted to get
past them.

'Tenente? Who’s a Tenente? A basso git ufficiali!
Down with the officers!’

Piani took me by the arm. T better call you by your
name/ he said. ‘They might try and make trouble.
They’ve shot some officers.’ We worked up past them.

T won’t make a report that will make trouble for his
family.’ I went on with our conversation.

'If the war is over it makes no difference,’ Piani said.
'But I don’t believe it’s over. It’s too good that it should
be over.’

'We’ll know pretty soon,’ I said.

'I don’t believe it’s over. They all think it’s over but
I don’t believe it.’

'Evviva la PaceP a^oldier shouted out. 'We’re going
home,’

'It would be fine if we all went home,’ Piani said.
'W'ouldn’t you like to go home?’

'Yes.’

'We’ll never go. I don’t think it’s over.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Andimno a casaP a soldier shouted.

^They throw away their rifles/ Piani said. 'They
take them off and drop them down while theyTe marching.
Then they shout.’

'They ought to keep their rifles.’

'They think if they thro^v away their rifles they can’t
make them fight.’

In the dark and the rain, making our way along the
side of the road I could see that many of the troops
still had their rifles. They stuck up above the capes.

'What brigade are you?’ an officer called out.

'‘Brigata di Pace,^ someone shouted. 'Peace Brigade!’
The officer said nothing.

'What does he say? What does the officer say?’

'Down with the officer. Evviz'a la PaceP

'Come on/ Piani said. We passed two British am-
bulances, abandoned in the block of vehicles.

'They’re from Gorizia/ Piani said. 'I know the cars.’

'They got further than we did.’

‘They started earlier.’

'I wonder where the drivers are?’

'Up ahead probably.’

'The Germans have stopped outside Udine/ I said.
'These people wdll all get across the river.’

'Yes/ Piani said. 'That's why I think the w’ar will
go on.’

'The Germans could come on/ I said. 'I wwder
wh}" they don’t come on.’

T don’t knowu I don’t know' anything about this kind
of w'ar.’

'They have to W'ait for their transport I suppose.’

'I don’t know'/ Piani said. Alone he w'as much gentler.
When he w'as with the others he w'as a very rough talker,

333

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

^Are you married, Luigi?’

'You know I am married.’

Ts that why you did not want to be a prisoner?’

'That is one reason. Are you married, Tenente?’

'Xo.’

'Neither is Bonello.’

'You can’t tell anything by a man’s being married.
But I should think a married man would want to get
back to his wife,’ I said. I -would be glad to talk about
wives.

'Yes.’

'How^ are your feet?’

'They’re sore enough.’

Before daylight we reached the bank of the Taglia-
mento and followed down along the flooded river to the
bridge where all the traffic was crossing.

'They ought to be able to hold at this river,’ Piani
said. In the dark the flood looked high. The water
swirled and it was wide. The wooden bridge was
nearly three-quarters of a mile across, and the river
that usually ran in narrow channels in the wide stony
bed far below the bridge, was close under the wooden
planking. We went along the bank and then worked
our way into the crowd that were crossing the bridge.
Crossing slowly in the rain a few feet above the flood,
pressed tight in the crowd, the box of an artillery caisson
just ahead, I looked over the side and watched the
river. Now that we could not go our own pace I felt
very tired. There was no exhilaration in crossing the
bridge. I wnndered what it would be like if a plane
bombed it in the daytime.

'Piani,’ I said.

'Here I am, Tenente.’ He was a little ahead in the

^34

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

jam. Xo one was talking. They were ail trying to get
across as soon as they could: thinking only of that. We
were almost across. At the far end of the bridge there
were officers and carabinieri standing on both sides
flashing lights. I saw them silhouetted against the
sky-line. As we came close to them I saw one of the
officers point to a man in the column. A carabiniere
went in after him and came out holding the man by the
arm. He took him away from the road. We came
almost opposite them. The officers were scmtmizing
every one in the column, sometimes speaking to each
other, going forward to flash a light in someone face.
They took someone else out just before we came
opposite. I saw the man. He was a lieutenant-colonel.
I saw the stars in the box on his sleeve as they flashed
a light on him. His hair was grey and he was short
and fat. The carabiniere pulled him in behind the
line of officers. As we came opposite I saw one or two
of them look at me. Then one pointed at me and spoke
to a carabiniere. I saw the carabiniere start for me,
come through the edge of the column toward me, then
felt him take me by the collar.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ I said and hit him in
the face. I saw his face under the hat, upturned mous-
taches, and blood coining down his cheek. Another one
dived in toward us.

‘What’s the matter with your’ I said- He did not
answer. He was watching a chance to grab me. I put
my arm behind me to loosen my pistol.

‘Don’t you know you can’t touch an officer?’

The other one grabbed me from behind and pulled
my arm up so that it twisted in the socket. I turned
with him and the other one grabbed me around the

235

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

neck. I kicked his shins and got my left knee into his
groin.

'Shoot him if he resists/ I heard someone say.

'What’s the meaning of this?’ I tried to shout but
my voice was not very loud. They had me at the side
of the road now.

'Shoot him if he resists/ an officer said. 'Take him
over back.’

'Who are you?’

'You’ll find out.’

'Who are you?’

'Battle police/ another officer said.

'Why don’t you ask me to step over instead of having
one of these airplanes grab me?’

They did not answer. They did not have to answer.
They w^ere battle police.

'Take him back there with the others/ the first officer
said. 'You see. He speaks Italian with an accent.’

'So do you, you bastard/ I said.

'Take him back with the others/ the first officer
said. They took me dowm behind the line of officers
below the road toward a group of people in a field by
the river bank. As we walked toward them shots were
fired. I saw flashes of the rifles and heard the reports.
We came up to the group. There were four officers
standing together, with a man in front of them with a
carabiniere on each side of him, A group of men were
standing guarded by carabinieri. Four other carabinieri
stood near the questioning officers, leaning on their
carbines. They were wide-hatted carabinieri. The two
wLo had me shoved me in with the group waiting to be
questioned. I looked at the man the officers were question-
ing. He was the fat, grey-haired, little lieutenant-colonel

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

they had taken out of the column. The questioners had
all the efficiency, coldness and command of themselves
of Italians who are firing and are not being fired on.

"Your Brigade?’

He told them,

‘Regiment?’

He told them.

‘Why are you not with your regiment?’

He told them.

‘Do you not know that an officer should be with his
troops?’

He did.

That was all. Another officer spoke.

Tt is you and such as you that have let the barbarians
on to the sacred soil of the fatherland.’

T beg your pardon/ said the lieutenant-colonel.

Tt is because of treacheiy^ such as yours that we have
lost the fruits of victory.’

‘Have you ever been in a retreat?’ the lieutenant-
colonel asked.

‘Italy should never retreat.’

We stood there in the rain and listened to this. We
were facing the officers and the prisoner stood in front
and a little to one side of us.

Tf you are going to shoot me/ the lieutenant-colonel
said, ‘please shoot me at once without further questioning.
The questioning is stupid.’ He made the sign of the
cross. The officers spoke together. One wrote something
on a pad of paper.

‘Abandoned his troops, ordered to be shot/ he said.

Two carabinieri took the lieutenant-colonel to the
river bank. He walked in the rain, an old man with
his hat off, a carabiniere on either side. I did not watch

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A FAREWELL TO ARAIS

them shoot him but I heard the shots. They were
-'-c-stior-iur someone else. This officer too was separated
from his troops. He was not allowed to make an ex-
He cried when they read the sentence from
the pad of paper and cried while they led him off, and
they were raesti'mdr.r another when they shot him. They
made a point of being intent on questioning the next
man while the man who had been questioned before was
being shot. In this way there was obviously nothing they
could do about it. I did not know whether I should wait
to be cue? tinned or make a break now. I was obviously
a German in Italian uniform. I saw how" their minds
worked; if they had minds and if they worked. They
were all young men and they were saving their countr}u
The second army was being reformed beyond the
Tagliamento. They were executing officers of the rank
of major and above who were separated from their troops.
They were also dealing summarily with German agitators
in Italian uniform. They wore steel helmets. Only two
of us had steel helmets. Some of the carabinieri had
them. The other carabinieri wore the wide hat. Air-
planes we called them. We stood in the rain and were
taken out one at a time to be questioned and shot. So
far they had shot every one they had questioned. The
questioners had that beautiful detachment and devotion
to stern justice of men dealing in death without being in
any danger of it. They were questioning a full colonel of
a line regiment. Three more officers had just been put
in with us.

WTiere was his regiment?

I looked at the carabinieri. They were looking at the
newcomers. The others were looking at the colonel, I
ducked down, pushed between two men, and ran for

238

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

the river, my head down. I tripped at the edge and
went in with a splash. The water was very cold and I
stayed under as long as I could. I could feel the current
swirl me and I stayed under until I thought I could
never come up. The minute I came up I took a breath
and went down again. It was easy to stay under with
so much clothing and my boots. When I came up the
second time I saw a piece of timber ahead of me and
reached it and held on with one hand. I kept my head
behind it and did not even look over it. I did not want
to see the bank. There were shots when I ran and shots
when I came up the first time. I heard them when I was
almost above water. There w*ere no shots now. The
piece of timber swning in the current and I held it with
one hand. I looked at the bank. It seemed to be going
by very fast. There was much wood in the stream. The
water w’as very cold. We passed the brush of an island
above the water. I held on to the timber with both hands
and let it take me along. The shore w^as out of sight^now.

CHAPTER 31

You do not know’ liow' long you are in a river when
the current moves swiftly. It seems a long time and it
may be very short. The water was cold and in flood
and many things passed that had been floated off the
banks when the river rose. I was lucky to have a hea\y
timber to hold on to, and I lay in the icy water with
my chin on the wood, holding as easily as I could with
both hands. I w’as afraid of cramps and I hoped we

239

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

would move toward the shore. "We went down the
river in a long ciir^'e. It %vas beginning to be light
enough so I could see the bushes along the shore-line.
There was a brash island ahead and the current moved
toward the shore. I wondered if I should take off my
boots and clothes and try' to swim ashore, but decided
not to. I had never thought of anything but that I
would reach the shore some way, and I would be in a
bad position if I landed barefoot. I had to get to Alestre
some way.

I watched the shore come close, then swing away,
then come closer again. We were floating more slowly.
The shore was very close now. I could see twigs on
the willow bush. The timber swung slowly so that the
bank was behind me and I knew w'e w'ere in an eddy.
We w'ent slowiy around. As I saw the bank again, very
close now', I tried holding with one arm and kicking
and sw’imming the timber tow'ard the bank wdth the
other, but I did not bring it any closer. I was afraid
we would move out of the eddy and, holding with one
hand, I drew up my feet so they wure against the side
of the timber and shoved hard toward the bank. I
could see the brush, but even with my momentum and
sw'imming as hard as I could, the current was taking me
awuy. I thought then I wuuld drowm because of my
boots, but I thrashed and fought through the water,
and when I looked up the bank was coming toward me,
and I kept thrashing and sw^imming in a heavy-footed
panic until I reached it. I hung to the willow branch
and did not have strength to pull myself up but I knew
I w'ould not drowm now. It had never occurred to me
on the timber that I might drown. I felt hollow and
sick in my stomach and chest from the effort, and I

240

A FAREWELL TO AR:^I3

held to the branches and waited. When the sick feeling
w'as gone I pulled in to the wnllow bushes and rested
again, my arms around some brush, holding tight with
my hands to the branches. Then I crawled out, pushed
on through the willows and onto the bank. It was half-
daylight and I saw no one. I lay flat on the bank and
heard the river and the rain.

After a w^'MIe I got up and started along the bank,
I knew there was no bridge across the river until Lati-
sana. I thought I might be opposite San Vito. I began
to think out what I should do. xAhead there was a ditch
running into the river. I went toward it. So far I had
seen no one and I sat down by some bushes along the
bank of the ditch and took off my shoes and emptied
them of water. I took off my coat, took my wallet with
my papers and my money all wet in it out of the inside
pocket and then wrung the coat out. I took off my
trousers and wrung them too, then my shirt and under-
clothing. I slapped and rubbed myself and then dressed
again, I had lost my cap.

Before I put on my coat I cut the cloth stars off my
sleeves and put them in the inside pocket with my
money. IMy money was w^et but was all right. I counted
it. There were three thousand and some lire, Aly
clothes felt wet and clammy and I slapped my arms to
keep the circulation going. I had woollen underwear and
I did not think I w'ould catch cold if I kept moving*
They had taken my pistol at the road and I put the
holster under my coat. I had no cape and it was cold
in the rain. I started up the bank of the canal. It was
daylight and the country was wet, low and dismal look-
ing. The fields were bare and wet; a long way away
I could see a campanile rising out of the plain, I came
Q 241

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

up onto a road. xAhead I saw some troops coming down
the road. I limped along the side of the road and they
passed me and paid no attention to me. They w'ere
a machine-gun detachment going up toward the river.
I went on down the road.

That day I crossed the Venetian plain. It is a low
level countiy and under the rain it is even flatter. To-
ward the sea there are salt marshes and very few roads.
The roads all go along the river mouths to the sea and
to cross the country you must go along the paths beside
the canals. I was working across the country from the
north to the south and had crossed two railway lines
and many roads and finally I came out at the end of a
path onto a railway line where it ran beside a marsh.
It was the main line from Venice to Trieste, with a
high solid embankment, a solid roadbed and double
track. Dowm the track a way w^as a flag-station and
I could see soldiers on guard. Up the line there was a
bridge over a stream that flowed into the marsh. I
could see a guard too at the bridge. Crossing the fields
to the north I had seen a train pass on this railroad,
visible a long way across the flat plain, and I thought
a train might come from Portogruaro. I watched the
guards and lay down on the embankment so that I
could see both ways along the track. The guard at the
bridge walked a little way up the line toward where I
lay, then turned and went back toward the bridge. I lay,
and was hungry, and waited for the train. The one I
had seen was so long that the engine moved it very
slowly, and I w^as sure I could get aboard it. After I
had almost given up hoping for one I saw a train com-
ing. The engine, coming straight on, grew" larger slowly,
I looked at the guard at the bridge. He was walking

242

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

on the near side of the bridge but on the other side of
the track. That would put him out of sight when the
train passed. I watched the engine come nearer. It
was working hard. I could see there were many cars.
I knew there would be guards on the train, and I tried
to see where they were, but, keeping out of sight, I
could not. The engine was almost to tvhere I was lying.
When it came opposite, working and puffing even on the
level, and I saw the engineer pass, I stood up and
stepped up close to the passing cars. If the guards
were watching I was a less suspicious object standing
beside the track. Several closed freight-cars passed.
Then I saw a low open car of the sort they call gondolas
coming, covered with canvas. I stood until it had al-
most passed, then jumped and caught the rear hand-
rods and pulled up. I crawled down between the gon-
dola and the shelter of the high freight-car behind. I
did not think anyone had seen me. I was holding to
the hand-rods and crouching low, my feet on the coup-
ling. We were almost opposite the bridge. I remem-
bered the guard. As we passed him he looked at me.
He was a boy and his helmet was too big for him. I
stared at him contemptuously and he looked away. He
thought I had something to do with the train.

We were past. I saw him still looking uncomfort-
able, watching the other cars pass and I stopped to see
how the canvas was fastened. It had grummets and was
laced down at the edge with cord. I took out my knife,
cut the cord and put my arm under. There were hard
bulges under the canvas that tightened in the rain. I
looked up and ahead. There \vas a guard on the freight-
car ahead but he was looking forward. I let go of the
hand-rails and ducked under the canvas. Aly forehead

H3

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

hit something that gave me a violent bump and I felt
blood on my face but I crawled on in and lay flat. Then
I turned around and fastened down the canvas.

I was in under the canvas with guns. They smelled
cleanly of oil and grease. I lay and listened to the rain
on the canvas and the clicking of the car ov'er the rails.
There was a little light came through and I lay and
looked at the guns. They had their canvas jackets on.
I thought they must have been sent ahead from the
third army. The bump on my forehead was swollen
and I stopped the bleeding by lying still and letting it
coagulate, then picked away the dried blood except over
the cut. It was nothing. I had no handkerchief, but
feeling with my fingers I w'ashed away w’here the dried
blood had been, with rain-w’ater that dripped from the
canvas, and wiped it clean with the sleeve of my coat.
I did not want to look conspicuous. I knew I would
have to get out before they got to Mestre because they
would be taking care of these guns. They had no guns
to lose or forget about. I w^as terrifically hungry.

CHAPTER 32

Lying on the floor of the flat-car with the guns beside
me under the canvas I was wet, cold, and very hungry.
Finally I rolled over and lay flat on my stomach with
my head on my arms. My knee was stiff, but it had been
very satisfactory. Valentini had done a fine job. I had
done half the retreat on foot and swum part of the
Tagliamento with his knee. It was his knee all right.

244

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

The other knee was mine. Doctors did things to yon
and then it was not your body any more. The head
was mine^ and the inside of the belly. It was very hungry
in there. I could feel it turn over on itself. The head
was mine 5 but not to use, not to think with; only to
remember and not too much remember.

I could remember Catherine but I knew I would get
crazy if I thought about her when I was not sure yet I
would see her, so I would not think about her, only
about her a little, only about her with the car going
slowly and clickingly, and some light through the canvas,
and my lying with Catherine on the floor of the car.
Hard as the floor of the car to lie not thinking only
feeling, having been away too long, the clothes wet and
the floor moving only a little each time and lonesome
inside and alone with wet clothing and hard floor for
a wife.

You did not love the floor of a flat-car nor guns with
canvas jackets and the smell of vaselined metal or a
canvas that rain leaked through, although it is very
fine under a canvas and pleasant with guns; but you
loved someone else whom now you knew was not even
to be pretended there; you seeing now veiy clearly and
coldly - not so coldly as clearly and emptily. You saw
emptily, lying on your stomach, having been present
when one army moved back and another came forward.
You had lost your cars and your men as a floorwalker
loses the stock of his department in a fire. There was,
however, no insurance. You were out of it now. You
had no more obligation. If they shot floorwalkers after
a fire in the department store because they spoke with
an accent they had always had, then certainly the
floorw'alkers would not be expected to return when the

245

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

store opened again for business. They might seek other
employment; if there was any other employment and
the police did not get them.

Anger was washed aw^ay in the river along with any
obligation. Although that ceased when the carabiniere
put his hands on my collar, I would like to have had
the uniform off although I did not care much about the
outward forms. I had taken off the stars, but that was
for convenience. It was no point of honour. I was not
against them. I was through. I wished them all the
luck. There were the good ones, and the brave ones, and
the calm ones and the sensible ones, and they deserved
it. But it was not my show any more and I wished this
bloody train would get to Mestre and I would eat and
stop thinking. I w^ould have to stop.

Piani w^ould tell them they had shot me. They went
through the pockets and took the papers of the people
they shot. They would not have my papers. They might
call me drowned. I wondered what they would hear in
the States. Dead from wounds and other causes. Good
Christ, I was hungry. I wondered what had become of
the priest at the mess. And Rinaldi. He was probably
at Pordenone. If they had not gone further back. Well,
I would never see him now. I w^ould never see any of
them now\ That life was over. I did not think he had
syphilis. It Avas not a serious disease anyway if you
took it in time, they said. But he would worry.
I would worry too if I had it. Anyone would
worry,

I was not made to think, I was made to eat. My
God, yes. Eat and drink and sleep with Catherine.
To-night maybe. No, that was impossible. But to-
morrow night, and a good meal and sheets and never

246

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

going away again except together. Probably have to
go damned quickly. She would go. I knew she would
go. When would we go? That was something to think
about. It was getting dark. I lay and thought where
we would go. There were many places.

CHAPTER 33

I DROPPED off the train in Milan as it slowed to come
into the station early in the morning before it was light,
I crossed the track and came out between some buildings
and down onto the street. A wine shop was open and I
went in for some coffee. It smelled of early morning,
of swept dust, spoons in coffee-glasses and the wet
circles left by wine-glasses. The proprietor was behind
the bar. Two soldiers sat at a table. I stood at the bar
and drank a glass of coffee and ate a piece of bread .
The coffee was grey with milk, and I skimmed the milk
scum off the top with a piece of bread. The proprietor
looked at me.

‘You want a glass of grappa?’

‘No thanks.’

‘On me,’ he said and poured a small glass and pushed
it toward me. ‘What’s happening at the front?’

‘I would not know.’

‘They are drunk,’ he said, moving his hand toward
the two soldiers, I could believe him. They looked
drunk.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what is happening at the front?’

T would not know about the front.’

‘I saw you come down the wall. You came off the
train.’

‘There is a big retreat.’

‘I read the papers. What happens? Is it over?’

‘I don’t think so.’

251

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

He filled the glass with grappa from a short bottle,

Tf you are in trouble/ he said, T can keep you/

T am not in trouble/

Tf you are in trouble stay here with me/

'Where does one stay?’

Tn the building. Many stay here. Any who are in
trouble stay here/

'Are many in trouble?’

Tt depends on the trouble. You are a South American?’
'Xo/

'Speak Spanish?’

'A little/

He wiped off the bar.

Tt is hard now to leave the countiy^ but in no way
impossible/

T have no wish to leave.’

'You can stay here as long as you want. You will see
what sort of man I am/

T have to go this morning but I will remember the
address to return.’

He shook his head. 'You won’t come back if you
talk like that. I thought you were in real trouble,’

'I am in no trouble. But I value the address of a
friend.’

I put a ten-lira note on the bar to pay for the coffee.
‘Have a grappa with me/ I said.

Tt is not necessary/

'Have one.’

He poured the two glasses.

'Remember/ he said. ‘Come here. Do not let other
people take you in. Here you are all right.’

T am sure.’

'You are sure?’

252

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

^Yes;

He was serious. ‘Then let me tell you one thing.
Do not go about with that coat.’

‘Why?’

‘On the sleeves it shows very plainly where the
stars have been cut aw’^ay. The cloth is a different

colour.’

I did not say anything,

Tf you have no papers I can give you papers.’

‘What papers?’

‘Leave papers.’

T have no need for papers. I have papers.’

‘All right/ he said. ‘But if you need papers I can
get what you wish.’

‘How much are such papers?’

‘It depends on what they are. The price is reasonable.’
T don’t need any now.’

He shrugged his shoulders.

T’m all right,’ I said.

When I went out he said, ‘Don’t forget that I am
your friend.’

‘No.’

‘I will see you again/ he said.

‘Good/ I said.

Outside I kept away from the station, where there
were military police, and picked up a cab at the edge
of the little park. I gave the driver the address of the
hospital. At the hospital I went to the porter’s lodge.
His wife embraced me. He shook my hand.

‘You are back. You are safe.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you had breakfast?’

‘Yes/ '

253

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'How are yoUj Tenente? How are you?’ the wife
asked.

'Fine.’

'Won't you have breakfast with us?’

'X05 thank you. Tell me is Aliss Barkley here at the
hospital now?’

'Miss Barkley?’

'The English lady nurse.’

'His girl/ the wife said. She patted my arm and
smiled.

'Xo/ the porter said. 'She is away.’

i\Iy heart went down. 'You are sure? I mean the
tall blonde English young lady.’

'I am sure. She is gone to Stresa.’

'When did she go?’

'She went two days ago with the other lady English.’

'Good/ I said. 'I wish you to do something for me.
Do not tell any one you have seen me. It is very im-
portant.’

'I won’t tell anyone,’ the porter said. I gave him a
ten-lira note. He pushed it away.

'I promise you I will tell no one/ he said. 'I don’t
want any money.’

'WTiat can we do for you, Signor Tenente?’ his wife
asked.

'Only that/ I said.

'We are dumb/ the porter said. 'You will let me know
an}i:hing I can do?’

'Yes/ I said. 'Good-bye. I will see you again.’

They stood in the door, looking after me.

I got into the cab and gave the driver the address of
Simmons, one of the men I knew who was studying
singing.

^54

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Simmons lived a long way out in the town toward
the Porta Magenta. He was still in bed and sleepy when
I went to see him.

‘You get up aw'fully early, Henry,’ he said.

‘I came in on the early train.’

‘What’s all this retreat? Were you at the front?
Will you have a cigarette? They’re in that box on the
table.’ It was a big room with a bed beside the wall,
a piano over on the far side and a dresser and table.
I sat on a chair by the bed. Simmons sat propped up
by the pillows and smoked.

T’m in a jam, Sim,’ I said.

‘So am I,’ he said. ‘I’m always in a jam. Won’t you
smoke?'

‘Xo,’ I said. ‘What’s the procedure in going to
Switzerland?’

‘For you? The Italians wouldn’t let you out of the
countiy.’

‘Yes. I know that. But the Swiss. What will they
do?’

‘They intern you.’

‘I know. But what’s the mechanics of it?’

‘Nothing. It’s very simple. You can go anywhere.
I think you just have to report or something. ’'vYhy?
Are you fleeing the police?’

‘Nothing definite yet.’

‘Don’t tell me if you don’t want. But it would be
interesting to hear. Nothing happens here. I was a
great flop at Piacenza.’

‘I’m awfully sorry.’

‘Oh, yes - 1 went very badly. I sang w'ell too. I’m
going to try it again at the Lyrico here.’

‘I’d like to be there.’

25 .“;

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘You’re awfully polite. You aren’t in a bad mess, are
your’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t tell me if you don’t want. How do you happen
to be away from the bloody front?’

‘I think I’m through with it.’

‘Good boy. I always knew you had sense. Can I
help you any way?’

‘You’re awfully busy.’

‘Xot a bit of it, my dear Henry. Not a bit of it. I’d be
happy to do anj-thing.’

‘You’re about my size. Would you go out and buy
me an outfit of civilian clothes? I’ve clothes but they’re
all at Rome.’

‘You did live there, didn’t you? It’s a filthy place.
How did you ever live there?’

‘I wanted to be an architect.’

‘That’s no place for that. Don’t buy clothes. I’ll
give you all the clothes you want. I’ll fit you out so
you’ll be a great success. Go in that dressing-room.
There’s a closet. Take anything you want. My dear
fellow, you don’t want to buy clothes.’

‘I’d rather buy them, Sim.’

‘My dear fellow, it’s easier for me to let you have
them than go out and buy them. Have you got a pass-
port? You w’on’t get far without a passport.’

‘Yes. I’ve still got my passport.’

‘Then get dressed, my dear fellow, and off to old
Helvetia.’

‘It’s not that simple. I have to go up to Stresa first.’

‘Ideal, my dear fellow. You just row a boat across.
If I wasn’t trying to sing, I’d go with you. I’ll go yet.’

‘You could take up yodelling.’

256

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Aly dear fellow, I’ll take up yodelling yet. I really
can sing though. That’s the strange part.’

T’ll bet you can sing.’

He lay back in bed smoking a cigarette.

‘Don’t bet too much. But I can sing though. It’s
damned funny, but I can. I like to sing. Listen.’ He
roared into ‘Africana,’ his neck swelling, the veins stand-
ing out. ‘I can sing,’ he said. ‘Whether they like it
or not.’ I looked out of the window. ‘I’ll go down and
let my cab go.’

‘Come back up, my dear fellow, and we’ll have break-
fast.’ He stepped out of bed, stood straight, took a
deep breath and commenced doing bending exercises.
I went downstairs and paid off the cab.

CHAPTER 34

In civilian clothes I felt a masquerader. I had been
in uniform a long time and I missed the feeling of
being held by your clothes. The trousers felt very
floppy. I had bought a ticket at Alilan for Stresa. I
had also bought a new hat. I could not wear Sim’s
hat but his clothes were fine. They smelled of tobacco
and as I sat in the compartment and looked out the win-
dow the new hat felt very new and the clothes very old.
I myself felt as sad as the wet Lombard country that
was "outside through the window. There were some
aviators in the compartment who did not think much
of me. They avoided looking at me and were very
scornful of a" civilian my age. I did not feel insulted.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

In the old days I would have insulted them and picked
a fight. They got off at Gallarate and I was glad to be
alone. I had the paper but I did not read it because I
did not want to read about the war. I was going to
forget the war. I had made a separate peace. I felt
damned lonely and was glad when the train got to
Stresa.

At the station I had expected to see the porters from
the hotels but there was no one. The season had been
over a long time and no one met the train. I got down
from the train with my bag, it was Sim’s bag, and very
light to carr}% being empty except for two shirts, and
stood under the roof of the station in the rain while
the train went on. I found a man in the station and
asked him if he knew what hotels were open. The Gran
Hotel des Isles Borromees was open and several small
hotels that stayed open all the year. I started in the
rain for the Isles Borromees canning my bag. I saw a
carriage coming down the street and signalled to the
driver. It was better to arrive in a carriage. We drove
up to the carriage entrance of the big hotel and the con-
cierge came out with an umbrella and was very polite.

I took a good room. It was very big and light and
looked out on the lake. The clouds were down over the
lake but it would be beautiful with the sunlight. I was
expecting m}" wife, I said. There was a big double-bed,
a leMo matrimonzale, with a satin coverlet. The hotel
was very luxurious. I \vent down the long halls, down
the wide stairs, through the rooms to the bar. I knew the
barman and sat on a high stool and ate salted almonds
md potato chips. The martini felt cool and clean.

‘What are you doing here in borgheseV the barman
asked after he had mixed a second martini.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T on leave. Convalesciri^-kave/

‘There is no one here. I don’t know wh} they keep
the raitel optnh

TIave you been fishinc^r’

T've caudit some beautiful pieces. Troiling this
time of year you catch some beautiful pieces/

'Did you ever get the tobacco I sent?^

‘Yes. Didn’t you get my card?’

I laughed, I had not been able to get the tobacco.
It was American Yaren that he wanted, but my

relatives had stopped sending it or it was being held up.
Anway it never came.

Til get some somewhere/ I said. ‘Tell me have you
seen two English girls in the town? They came here
day before yesterday.’

‘They are not at the hotel.’

‘They are nurses/

T have seen two nurses. Wait a minute, I will find
out where they are/

‘One of them is my wife/ I said. ‘I have come here
to meet her/

‘The other is my wife.’

T am not joking/

‘Pardon my stupid joke/ he said. T did not under-
stand/ He went away and was gone quite a little while.
I ate olives, salted almonds and potato chips and looked
at myself in civilian clothes in the mirror behind the
bar. The bartender came back. ‘They are at the little
hotel near the station/ he said.

‘How about some sandwiches?’

Til ring for some. You understand there is nothing
here, now there are no people.’

‘Isn’t there really anyone at all?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Yes. There are a few people.’

The sandwiches came and I ate three and drank a
couple more martinis. I had never tasted am^thing so
cool and clean. They made me feel civilized. I had had
too much red wine, bread, cheese, bad coffee and grappa.
I sat on the high stool before the pleasant mahogany,
the brass and the mirrors and did not think at all. The
barman asked me some question.

‘Don’t talk about the war,’ I said. The war was a
long way away. Alaybe there wasn’t any war. There
was no war here. Then I realized it was over for me.
But I did not have the feeling that it was really over.
I had the feeling of a boy who thinks of what is happening
at a certain hour at the schoolhouse from which he has
played truant.

Catherine and Helen Ferguson were at supper when
I came to their hotel. Standing in the hallway I saw
them at table. Catherine’s face was away from me and
I saw the line of her hair and her cheek and her lovely
neck and shoulders. Ferguson was talking. She stopped
when I came in.

‘Mv God,’ she said.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Why it’s you!’ Catherine said. Her face lighted
up. She looked too happy to believe it. I kissed her.
Catherine blushed and I sat down at the table.

‘You’re a fine mess,’ Ferguson said. ‘What are you
doing here? Have you eaten?’

‘No.’ The girl who was serving the meal came in
and I told her to bring a plate for me. Catherine looked
at me all the time, her eyes happy.

‘What are you doing in mufti?’ Ferguson asked.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘I'm in the Cabinet.'’

‘You’re in some mess.’'

‘Cheer up, Fergy. Cheer up just a little.’

‘Fm not cheered by seeing you. I know the mess
you’ve gotten this girl into. Y’ou’re no cheerful sight
to me.’

Catherine smiled at me and touched me with her
foot under the table.

‘Xo one got me in a mess, Fergy. I get in my own
messes.’

‘I can’t stand him,’ Ferguson said. ‘He’s done nothing
but ruin you with his sneaking Italian tricks. Americans
are worse than Italians.’

‘The Scotch are such a moral people,’ Catherine said.

‘I don’t mean that. I mean his Italian sneakiness.’

‘Am I sneaky, Fergy:’

‘Y'ou are. Y’ou’re worse than sneaky. Y’ou’re like a
snake. A snake with an Italian uniform: with a cape
around your neck.’

T haven’t got an Italian uniform now.’

‘That’s just another example of your sneakiness.
Y’’ou had a love affair all summer and got this girl with
child and now I suppose you’ll sneak off.’

I smiled at Catherine and she smiled at me.

‘We’ll both sneak off,’ she said.

‘Y’ou’re two of the same thing,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’m
ashamed of you, Catherine Barkley. Y’ou have no shame
and no honour and you’re as sneaky as he is.’

‘Don’t, Fergy,’ Catherine said and patted her hand.
‘Don’t denounce me. Yun know we like each other.’

‘Take your hand away,’ Ferguson said. Her face
was red. ‘If you had any shame it would be different.
But you’re God knows how many months gone with

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

child and you think it’s a joke and are all smiles because
your seducer’s come back. You’ve no shame and no
feelings.’ She began to cry. Catherine went over and
put her arm around her. As she stood comforting Fer-
guson , I could see no change in her figure.

T don’t care/ Ferguson sobbed. T think it’s dreadful.’

'TherCj there, Ferg}^/ Catherine comforted her. T’ll
be ashamed. Don’t cry, Fergy. Don’t cry, old Fergy.’

T’m not crying,’ Ferguson sobbed. ‘I’m not ciy^ing.
Except for the awful thing you’ve gotten into.’ She
looked at me. T hate you/ she said. ‘She can’t make
me not hate you. You dirty sneaking American Italian.’
Her eyes and nose were red with crying.

Catherine smiled at me.

‘Don’t you smile at him with your arm around me.’

‘You’re unreasonable, Fergy.’

‘I know it/ Ferguson sobbed. ‘You mustn’t mind
me, either of you. I’m so upset. I’m not reasonable. I
know it. I want you both to be happy.’

‘We’re happy,’ Catherine said. ‘You’re a sweet Fergy.’

Ferguson cried again. ‘I don’t want you happy the
way you are. Why don’t you get married? You haven’t
got another wife have you?’

‘No,’ I said. Catherine laughed.

‘It’s nothing to laugh about/ Ferguson said. ‘Plenty
of them have other wives.’

‘We’ll be married, Fergy,’ Catherine said, ‘if it will
please you.’

‘Not to please me. You should want to be married.’

‘We’ve been very busy.’

‘Yes. I know. Busy making babies.’ I thought she
was going to cry again but she went into bitterness
instead. ‘I suppose you’ll go off with him now to-night?’

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A FAREWELL TO AR^IS

^Yes/ said Catherine. Tf he wants med

AVhat about me?'

h^re you afraid to stay here alone?'

^YeSj I amd

'Then Fll stay with you.’

‘X 05 go on with him. Go with him right away. I’m
sick of seeing both of you.’

'We’d better finish dinner/

'Xo. Go right away.’

'Ferg}% be reasonable.’

T say get out right away. Go away both of you.’

‘Let's go then,’ I said. I was sick of Feigy.

'You do want to go. You see you want to leave me
even to eat dinner alone. I’ve always wanted to go to
the Italian lakes and this is how it is. Oh, Oh,’ she
sobbed, then looked at Catherine and choked.

''Well stay till after dinner/ Catherine said. 'And
111 not leave you alone if you want me to stay. I won’t
leave you alone, Fergjv’

'Xo. Xo, I want you to go. I want you to go.’ She
wiped her eyes. T’m so unreasonable. Please don’t mind
me.’

The girl who sensed the meal had been upset by all
the ciying. Xow as she brought in the next course she
seemed relieved that things were better.

That night at the hotel, in our room with the long
empty hall outside and our shoes outside the door, a
thick carpet on the floor of the room, outside the win-
dows the rain failing and in the room light and pleasant
and cheerful, then the light out and it exciting with
smooth sheets and the bed comfortable, feeling that we
had come home, feeling no longer alone, waking in the

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

night to find the other one there, and not gone away;
all other things were unreal. We slept when we were
tired and if we woke the other one woke too so one
was not alone. Often a man wishes to be alone and a
girl wishes to be alone too and if they love each other
they are jealous of that in each other, but I can truly
say we never felt that. We could feel alone when we
were together, alone against the others. It has only
happened to me like that once. I have been alone while
I was with many girls and that is the way that you can
be most lonely. But W'e were never lonely and never
afraid when we were together. I know that the night
is not the same as the day: that all things are different,
that the things of the night cannot be explained in the
day, because they do not then exist, and the night can
be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness
has started. But with Catherine there w^as almost no
difference in the night except that it was an even better
time. If people bring so much courage to this world
the world has to kill them to break them, so of course
it kills them. The world breaks every one and after-
ward many are strong at the broken places. But those
that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the
very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are
none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there
will be no special hurry.

I remember waking in the morning. Catherine was
asleep and the sunlight was coming in through the win-
dow. The rain had stopped and I stepped out of bed
and across the floor to the window. Down below were
the gardens, bare now but beautifully regular, the gravel
paths, the trees, the stone w’all by the lake and the lake

264

A FAREWELL TO ARIMS

in the sunlight with the mountains beyond, I stood
at the window looking out and when I turned away I
saw Catherine was awake and watching me.

‘How are you^ darling?’ she said. ‘Isn’t it a lovely
day? ^

‘How do you feel?’

T feel ver}' well. We had a lovely nightd

‘Do you want breakfast?’

She wanted breakfast. So did I and we had it in
bed, the November sunlight coming in the window, and
the breakfast tray across my lap.

‘Don’t you want the paper? You always wanted the
paper in the hospital.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t want the paper now.’

‘Was it so bad you don’t want even to read about it?’

T don’t want to read about it.’

T wish I had been with you so I would know about
it too.’

T’ll tell you about it if I ever get it straight in my
head.’

‘But won’t they arrest you if they catch you out of
uniform?’

‘They’ll probably shoot me.’

‘Then well not stay here. We’ll get out of the country.^

T’d thought of that.’

‘Well get out. Darling, you shouldn’t take silly
chances. Tell me how did you come from Alestre to
Milan?’

T came on the train. I was in uniform then.’

‘Weren’t you in danger then?’

‘Not much. I had an old order of movement. I fixed
the dates on it in Mestre.’

‘Darling, you’re liable to be arrested here any time.

265

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

I won’t have it. It’s silly to do something like that.
Where would we be if they took you off?’

‘Let’s not think about it. I’m tired of thinking about
it.’

‘What would you do if they came to arrest your’

‘Shoot them.’

‘You see how silly you are, I won’t let you go out of
the hotel until we leave here.’

‘Where are we going to go?’

‘Please don’t be that way, darling. We’ll go where-
ever you say. But please find some place to go right
away.’

‘Switzerland is down the lake, we can go there.’

‘That will be lovely.’

It was clouding over outside and the lake was dark-
ening.

‘I wish we did not always have to live like criminals,’
I said.

‘Darling, don’t be that way. You haven’t lived like
a criminal very long. And we’ll never live like criminals.
We’re going to have a fine time.’

‘I feel like a criminal. I’ve deserted from the army.’

‘Darling, please be sensible. It’s not deserting from
the army. It’s only the Italian army.’

I laughed. ‘You’re a fine girl. Let’s get back into
bed. I feel fine in bed.’

A little while later Catherine said, ‘You don’t feel
like a criminal do you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not when I’m wdth you.’

‘You’re such a silly boy,’ she said. ‘But I’ll look
after you. Isn’t it splendid, darling, that I don’t have
any morning-sickness?’

266

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Tt's grand.'

'You don't appreciate what a fine wife you have.
But I don't care. Fll get you some place where they
canh arrest you and then w’e'll have a lovely time.'

'Let's go there right away/

'We will, darling. Fll go any place any time you

wish/

'Let's not think about an\i;hing/

'All right/

CHAPTER 35

Catherine went along the lake to the little hotel to
see Ferguson and I sat in the bar and read the papers.
There were comfortable leather chairs in the bar and I
sat in one of them and read until the barman came in.
The army had not stood at the Tagliamento. They
were falling back to the Piave. I remembered the
Piave. The railroad crossed it near San Dona going
up to the front. It was deep and slow there and quite
narrow. Down below there were mosquito marshes
and canals. There were some lovely villas. Once, before
the war, going up to Cortina D'Ampezzo I had gone
along it for several hours in the Mils. Up there it
looked like a trout stream, flowing swiftly with shallow
stretches and pools under the shadow of the rocks.
The road turned off from it at Cadore. I wondered
how the army that was up there would come down.
The barman came in.

'Count Greffi was asking for you,' he said.

'Who?'

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Count Greffi. You remember the o!d man who was
here when you were here before/

‘Is he here?’

‘YeSs he’s here with his niece. I told himjyou were
here. He wants you to play billiards.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s taking a w'alk.’

‘How is he?’

‘He’s younger than ever. He drank three champagne
cocktails last night before dinner.’

‘How’s his billiard game?’

‘Good. He beat me. When I told him you were
here he was very pleased. There’s nobody here for him
to play with/

Count GrefS was ninety-four years old. He had
been a contemporary of Mettemich, and w-as an old
man with w'hite hair and moustache and beautiful man-
ners. He had been in the diplomatic service of both
Austria and Italy and his birthday parties were the
great social event of Tvlilan, He was living to be one
hundred years old and played a smoothly fluent game
of billiards that contrasted with his own ninety-four-
y ear-old brittleness. I had met him when I had been
at Stresa once before out of season and while we played
billiards w^e drank champagne. I thought it was a splendid
custom and he gave me fifteen points in a hundred and
beat me.

‘W^hy didn’t you tell me he was here?’

T forgot it/

‘Who else is here?’

‘No one you know. There are only six people alto-
gether/

‘What are you doing now?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Xothing/

^Come on out fishing/

T could crme for an hour.’

'Come on. Bring the trolline line/

The harman put on a coat and we went out* We
went down and got a boat and I rowed while the bar-
man sat in the stem and let out the line with a spinner
and a hea\w sinker on the end to troll for lake trout.
We rowed along the shore, the barman holding the line
in his hand and giving it occasional jerks forward.
Stresa looked very deserted from the lake. There were
the long rows of bare trees, the big hotels and the closed
villas. I rowed across to Isola Bella and went close
to the walls, where the water deepened sharply, and
you saw the rock wall slanting down in the clear water,
and then up and along to the fisherman s island. The
sun was under a cloud and the water was dark and
smooth and very cold. We did not have a strike though
we saw some circles on the water from rising fish.

I rowed up opposite the fisherman’s island where
there were boats drawn up and men were mending nets.

^Should we get a drink?’

hAlI right.’

I brought the boat up to the stone pier and the bar-
man pulled in the line, coiling it on the bottom of the
boat and hooking the spinner on the edge of the gun-
wale. I stepped out and tied the boat. We went into a
little cafe, sat at a bare w’ooden table and ordered ver-
mouth.

‘Are YOU tired from rowine?’

‘Xo/”

Til row back/ he said.

T like to row/

269

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Alaybe if you- hold the line it will change the luck.’

‘All right.’

‘Tell me how goes the war.’

‘Rotten.’

‘I don’t have to go. I’m too old, like Count GrefE.’

‘IMaybe you’ll have to go yet.’

‘Next year they’ll call my class. But I won’t go.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Get out of the country. I wouldn’t go to war. I
was at the war once in Abyssinia. Nix. Why do vou
go?’

‘I don’t know. I was a fool.’

‘Have another vermouth?’

‘All right.’

The barman rowed back. We trolled up the lake be-
yond Stresa and then down not far from shore. I held
the taut line and felt the faint pulsing of the spinner
revolving while I looked at the dark November water
of the lake and the deserted shore. The barman rowed
with long strokes and on the forward thrust of the boat
the line throbbed. Once I had a strike: the line hardened
suddenly and jerked back, I pulled and felt the live
weight of the trout and then the line throbbed again. I
had missed him.

‘Did he feel big?’

‘Pretty big.’

‘Once when I w^as out trolling alone I had the line
in my teeth and one struck and nearly took my mouth
out.’

‘The best way is to have it over your leg,’ I said.
‘Then you feel it and don’t lose your teeth.’

I put my hand in the water. It w^as very cold. We
were almost opposite the hotel nowx

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T have to go in,’ the barman said, 'to be there for
eleven o’clock. Vlmire du cocktaiL^

hAll right/

I pulled in the line and wrapped it on a stick notched
at each end. The barman put the boat in a little slip in
the stone wall and locked it with a chain and padlock.

'Any time vou want it/ he said, Til give you the key/

^Thanks.’ '

We went up to the hotel and into the bar. I did not
want another drink so early in the morning so I went
up to our room. The maid had just finished doing the
room and Catherine was not back yet. I lay down on
the bed and tried to keep from thinking.

"When Catherine came back it was all right again.
Ferguson was downstairs, she said. She was coming
to lunch.

T knew you wouldn’t mind/ Catherine said.

^Xo,’ I said,

'What’s the matter, darling?’

T don’t know.’

T know. You haven’t anything to do. All you have
is me andl go away.’

'That’s true,’

T’m sorry, darling. I know it must be a dreadful
feeling to have nothing at all suddenly.’

‘Aly life used to be full of eveiything/ I said. 'Now
if you aren’t with me I haven’t a thing in the world.’

'But 111 be with you. I was only gone for two hours.
Isn’t there anWhing you can do?’

T went fishing with the barman.’

'Wasn’t it fun?’

'Yes.’

'Don’t think about me when I’m not here,’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘That’s the way I worked it at the front. But there
was something to do then.’

‘Othello with his occupation gone,’ she teased.

‘Othello was a nigger,’ I said. ‘Besides, I’m not
jealous. I’m just so in love with you that there isn’t
amthing else.’

‘Will you be a good boy and be nice to Ferguson?’

‘I’m always nice to Ferguson unless she curses me.’

‘Be nice to her. Think how much we have and she
hasn’t anything.’

‘I don’t think she w’ants what we have.’

‘You don’t know much, darling, for such a wise boy.’

‘I’ll be nice to her.’

‘I know you will. You’re so sweet.’

‘She won’t stay afterward, will she?’

‘No. I’ll get rid of her.’

‘And then we’ll come up here.’

‘Of course. What do you think I want to do?’

We went downstairs to have lunch with Ferguson.
She was very impressed by the hotel and the splendour
of the dining-room. W^e had a good lunch with a
couple of bottles of white capri. Count Greffi came
into the dining-room and bowed to us. His niece, w'ho
looked a little like my grandmother, was with him. I
told Catherine and Ferguson about him and Ferguson
was very impressed. The hotel was ver}" big and grand
and empty but the food wns good, the wine was very
pleasant and finally the wine made us all feel very well.
Catherine had no need to feel any better. She wns
very happy. Ferguson became quite cheerful. I felt
very w’^ell myself. After lunch Ferguson went back to
her hotel. She wns going to lie down for a W’hile after
lunch she said.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS
l?^tc in the rJternoon sr.meone knocked on our

door,

AYho is it?'

®The Count Greffi wishes to know if you will play
billiards with him/

I looked at my watch; I had taken it off and it was
under the pillow.

'Do you have to go, darling?’ Catherine whispered.

T think Fd better.’ The watch said a quarter past
four o'clock. Out loud I said, ‘Tell the Count Greffi
I will be in the billiard-room at five o’clock.’

At a quarter to five I kissed Catherine good-bye and
went into the bathroom to dress. Knotting my tie and
looking in the glass I looked strange to myself in the
civilian clothes. I must remember to buy some more
shirts and socks.

‘Will you be away a long time?' Catherine asked. She
looked lovely in the bed. ‘Would you hand me the brush?'

I watched her brushing her hair, holding her head so
the weight of her hair all came on one side. It was
dark outside and the light over the head of the bed
shone on her hair and on her neck and shoulders. I
went over and kissed her and held her hand with the
brush and her head sunk back on the pillow. I kissed her
neck and shoulders. I felt faint with loving her so much.

T don't want to go away.'

T don’t want you to go away.'

T won’t go then.'

‘Yes. Go. It’s only for a little while and then, you'll
come back.'

‘Well have dinner up here.'

‘Hurr}” and come back.'

I found the Count Greffi in the billiard-room. He

s 273

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

was practising strokes, looking very fragile under the
light that came down above the billiard table. On a card
table a little way beyond the light was a silver icing-
bucket with the necks and corks of two champagne
bottles showing above the ice. The Count GrefE
straightened up when I came tow’ard the table and
walked toward me. He put out his hand, Tt is such a
great pleasure that you are here. You were very kind
to come to play with me,^

Tt was very nice of you to ask me.’

“^Are you quite well? They told me you were wounded
on the Isonzo. I hope you are well again.’

T’m very well. Have you been well?’

‘Oh, I am always well. But I am getting old. I detect
signs of age now.’

T can’t believe it.’

‘Yes. Do you want to know one? It is easier for
me to talk Italian. I discipline myself but I find when
I am tired that it is so much easier to talk Italian. So
I know I must be getting old.’

‘We could talk Italian. I am a little tired too.’

‘Oh, but when you are tired it will be easier for you
to talk English.’

‘American.’

‘Yes. American. You will please talk American. It
is a delightful language.’

‘I hardly ever see Americans.’

‘You must miss them. One misses one’s country-
men and especially one’s countrywomen. I know that
experience. Should we play or are you too tired?’

‘I’m not really tired. I said that for a joke. What
handicap will you give me?’

‘Have you been playing very much?’

274

A FAREWELL TO ARM^.

A'/i pL} V cIL Tun k: ii L,:ncrcii:'

iLltur me/

Tifmen?’

'ITrn \ir:Al hv Fnu but you vAIl beat me/

'biaoi/i me p]ey for a sta!ier You always wished to
play f }r a stake/

T think \ee“d better/

k\I! nad:t. I mill mbe }oi: eighteen p^oints and we
wil! play f m a franc a point/

He played a lovely 2amc of billiards and with the
! :.fk ; I was only four ahead at fifty. Count Grcffi
pushed a button on due wall t?; ring for the barniiin.

"Open one bottle, please/ he said. Then to me, AVe
will take a little stimulant/ The wine was icy cold and
very dry and noed.

‘Should we talk Italian? Would you mind very- much?
It is my great weakness now/

We Avent on playing, sipping the wine between shots,
speaking in Italian, but talking little, concentrated on
the game. Count Greffi made his one-hundredth point
and with the handicap I was only at ninety-four. He
smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

*Xo\v \xe will drink the other bottle and you will tell
me about the war/ He waited for me to sit down.

LAbout ar.mhir.r else/ I said.

'You don't want to talk about it? Good. What have
you been reading?’

'Nothing,’ I said. T’m afraid I am very’' dull.’

'No. But you should read.’

'What is there written in war-time?’

'There is Le Feu by a Frenchman, Barbusse. There
is d/r. Britling Sees Through It.^

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'No, he doesn't/

%Vhat?'

'He doesn't see through it. Those books were at the
hospital/

'Then you have been reading?'

'YeSj but nothing any good.’

T thought Mr, Britling a verj" good study of the English
middle-class soul.’

T don’t know about the soul.’

Toot boy. We none of us know’ about the soul. Are
you CroyantV

'At night.’ Count Greffi smiled and turned the glass
with his fingers.

T had expected to become more devout as I grow older
but somehow I haven’t,’ he said. 'It is a great pity.’

'Would you like to live after death?’ I asked and
instantly felt a fool to mention death. But he did not
mind the word.

'It would depend on the life. Thislifeis very pleasant. I
would like to live forever/ he smiled. ‘I very nearly have.’

We w^ere sitting in the deep leather chairs, the cham-
pagne in the ice-buckci and our glasses on the table
between us.

'If you ever live to be as old as I am you will find
many things strange.’

'You never seem old.’

'It is the body that is old. Sometimes I am afraid
I will break off a finger as one breaks a stick of chalk.
And the spirit is no older and not much wiser.’

'You are wise.’

'No, that is the great fallacy, the wisdom of old men.
They do not grow wise. They grow careful.’

'Perhaps that is wisdom.’

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A FAREWELL TO AR.MS

‘It i.i a \i.Ty unattri-ctivt; wiadoi^'.. What tl>'j y-'iu
nv,st:’'

‘Sorat-Tjr.e I hive.’

‘With* it is ti.c same. That is not wisdom. Do you

\ iitcr
•Yrs.’

‘5o do I. Because it IS I have. .\nd to "ive birthday
parties,’ he laughed. *Y<-»u arc • wiser than I am.

You do not cive birthday parties.’
both drank the wine.

‘What do you think of the war really?’ I asked.

‘I think it is stupid.’

‘Who will win it:’

‘Italy.’

‘Why?’

‘They are a younger nation.’

‘Do younger nations always win wars?'

‘They are apt to for a time.’

‘Then what happens?’

‘They become older nations.’

‘Y'ou said you were not wise.’

‘Dear boy, that is not wisdom. That is cynicism.’

‘It sounds very wise to me.’

‘It’s not particularly. I could quote you the examples
on the other side. But it is not bad. Have we finished
the champagne?’

‘Almost.’

‘Should we drink some more? Then I must dress,’
‘Perhaps we’d better not now.'

‘Y’ou are sure you don’t want more?’

‘YTs.’ He stood up.

‘I hope you will be very fortunate and very happy
and very, ver\' healthy.’

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‘Thank you. And I hope you will live forever.’

‘Thank you. I have. And if you ever become devout
pray for me if I am dead. I am asking several of my
friends to do that. I had expected to become devout
myself but it has not come.’ I thought he smiled sadly
but I could not tell. He was so old and his face was very
wrinkled, so that a smile used so many lines that all
gradations were lost.

T might become very devout,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I
will pray for you.’

T had always expected to become devout. All my
family died very devout. But somehow it does not
come.’

Tt’s too early.’

‘Maybe it is too late. Perhaps I have outlived my
religious feeling.’

‘My own comes only at night.’

‘Then too you are in love. Do not forget that is a
religious feeling.’

‘You believe so?’

‘Of course.’ He took a step toward the table. ‘You
were very kind to play,’

‘It was a great pleasure.’

‘We will walk upstairs together.’

CHAPTER 36

That night there was a storm and I woke to hear the
rain lashing the window-panes. It was coming in the
open window. Someone had knocked on the door. I

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went to the door very softly, not to disturb Catherine,
and opened it. The barman stood there. He wore his
overcoat and carried his wet hat.

‘Can I speak to j'^ou, Tenente?’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s a very serious matter.’

I looked around. The room was dark. I saw the
water on the floor from the w'indow. ‘Come in,’ I said.
I took him by the arm into the bathroom; locked the
door and put on the light. I sat down on the edge of the
bathtub.

‘What’s the matter, Emilio? Are you in trouble?’

‘No. You are, Tenente.’

‘Yes?’

‘They are going to arrest you in the morning.’

‘Yes?’

‘I came to tell you. I was out in the town and I heard
them talking in a cafe.’

‘I see.’

He stood there, his coat wet, holding his wet hat and
said nothing.

‘Why are they going to arrest me?’

‘For something about the war.’

‘Do you know what?’

‘No. But I know' that they know’ you were here before
as an officer and now you are here out of uniform. After
this retreat they arrest everybody.’

I thought a minute.

‘W’hat time do they come to arrest me?’

‘In the morning. I don’t know' the time.’

‘What do you say to do?’

He put his hat in the washbowl. It was very wet and
had been dripping on the floor.

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Tf you have nothing to fear an arrest is nothing. But
it is always bad to be arrested, especially now/

T don’t want to be arrested/

‘Then go to Switzerland/

‘How?’

Tn my boat/

‘There is a storm,’ I said.

‘The storm is over. It is rough but you will be all
right.’

‘When should we go?’

‘Right away. They might come to arrest you early
in the morning.’

‘What about our bags?’

‘Get them packed. Get your lady dressed. I will take
care of them.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘I will w'ait here. I don’t want anyone to see me outside
in the hall.’

I opened the door, closed it, and went into the bedroom.
Catherine was awake.

‘What is it, darling?’

‘It’s all right, Cat,’ I said. ‘Would you like to get
dressed right away and go in a boat to Switzerland?’

‘Would you?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’d like to go back to bed.’

‘What is it about?’

‘The barman says they are going to arrest me in the
morning.’

‘Is the barman crazy?’

‘No/

‘Then please hurry, darling, and get dressed so we
can start/ She sat up on the side of the bed. She was
still sleepy. ‘Is that the barman in the bathroom?’

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Wes.’

When I won’t wash. Please look the other way, darling,
and rii be dressed in just a minute.’

I saw her white back as she took off her nightgown
and then I looked away because she wanted me to. She
was beginning to be a little big with the child and she
did not want me to see her. I dressed hearing the rain
on the windows. I did not have much to put in my bag.

Where’s plenty of room in my bag, Cat, if you need any.’

T’m almost packed,’ she said. ‘Darling, Fm awfully
stupid, but why is the barman in the bathroom?’

‘Sh ~ he’s waiting to take our bags down.’

‘He’s aw' fully nice.’

‘He’s an old friend,’ I said. ‘I nearly sent him some
pipe-tobacco once.’

I looked out the open wdndow at the dark night. I
could not see the lake, only the dark and the rain but
the wind was quieter.

‘I’m ready, darling,’ Catherine said.

‘All right.’ I went to the bathroom door. ‘Here are the
bags, Emilio,’ I said. The barman took the two bags,

‘You’re very good to help us,’ Catherine said.

‘That’s nothing, lady,’ the barman said. ‘I’m glad
to help you just so I don’t get in trouble myself. Listen,’
he said to me, ‘I’ll take these out the ser\^ants’ stairs
and to the boat. You just go out as though you were
going for a walk.’

‘It’s a lovely night for a walk,’ Catherine said.

‘It’s a bad night all right.’

T’m glad I’ve an umbrella,’ Catherine said.

We walked dowm the hall and dowm the wide thickly
carpeted stairs. At the foot of the stairs by the door
the porter sat behind his desk.

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He looked surprised at seeing us.

‘You’re not going out, sir?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We’re going to see the storm along the
lake.’

‘Haven’t you got an umbrella, sir?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘This coat sheds water.’

He looked at it doubtfully. ‘I’ll get you an umbrella,
sir,’ he said. He went away and came back with a big
umbrella. ‘It is a little big, sir,’ he said. I gave him
a ten-lira note. ‘Oh you are too good, sir. Thank you
very much,’ he said. He held the door open and we
went out into the rain. He smiled at Catherine and she
smiled at him. ‘Don’t stay out in the storm,’ he said.
‘You will get wet, sir and lady.’ He was only the second
porter, and his English was still literally translated.

‘We’ll be back,’ I said. We walked down the path
under the giant umbrella and out through the dark wet
gardens to the road and across the road to the trellised
pathway along the lake. The wind was blowing off-
shore now. It was a cold, wet November wind and I
knew it was snowing in the mountains. We came along
past the chained boats in the slips along the quay to
where the barman’s boat should be. The water was
dark against the stone. The barman stepped out from
beside the row of trees.

‘The bags are in the boat,’ he said.

‘I want to pay you for the boat,’ I said.

‘How much money have you?’

‘Not so much.’

‘You send me the money later. That will be all right.’

‘How much?’

‘What you want.’

‘Tell me how much.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Tf you get through send me five hundred francs.
You won’t mind that if you get through.’

‘All right.’

‘Here are sandwiches.’ He handed me a package.
‘Everything there was in the bar. It’s all here. This
is a bottle of brandy and a bottle of wine.’ I put them
in my bag. ‘Let me pay you for those.’

‘All right, give me fifty lire.’

I gave it to him. ‘The brandy is good,’ he said.
‘You don’t need to be afraid to give it to your lady.
She better get in the boat.’ He held the boat, it rising
and falling against the stone wall and I helped Catherine
in. She sat in the stem and pulled her cape around
her.

‘You know where to go?’

‘Up the lake.’

‘You know how far?’

‘Past Luino.’

‘Past Luino, Caimero, Cannobio, Tranzano. You
aren’t in Switzerland until you come to Brissago. You
have to pass Monte Tamara.’

‘What time is it?’ Catherine asked.

‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ I said.

‘If you row all the time you ought to be there by
seven o’clock in the morning.’

‘Is it that far?’

‘It’s thirty-five kilometres.’

‘How should we go? In this rain we need a compass.’

‘No. Row to Isola Bella. Then on the other side of
Isola Madre go with the wind. The wind will take you to
Pallanza. You will see the lights. Then go up the shore.’

‘Maybe the wind will change.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘This wind will blow like this for three

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

days. It comes straight down from the Mattarone.
There is a can to bail with.’

‘Let me pay you something for the boat now.’

‘No, I’d rather take a chance. If you get through you
pay me all you can.’

‘All right.’

‘I don’t think you’ll get drowned.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Go with the wind up the lake.’

‘All right.’ I stepped in the boat.

‘Did you leave the money for the hotel?’

‘Yes. In an envelope in the room.’

‘All right. Good luck, Tenente.’

‘Good luck. We thank you many times.’

‘You won’t thank me if you get drowned.’

‘What does he say?’ Catherine asked.

‘He saj^s good luck.’

‘Good luck,’ Catherine said. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes.’

He bent down and shoved us oif. I dug at the water
with the oars, then waved one hand. The barman waved
back deprecatingly. I saw the lights of the hotel and
rowed out, rowing straight out until they w-ere out of
sight. There was quite a sea running but we were going
with the wind.

CHAPTER 37

I ROWED in the dark keeping the vrind in my face. The
rain had stopped and only came occasionally in gusts.
It was very dark, and the wind was cold. I could see

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Catherine in the stern but I could not see the water
where the blades of the oars dipped. The oars were
long and there were no leathers to keep them from
slipping out. I pulled, raised, leaned forward, found
the water, dipped and pulled, rowing as easily as I
could. I did not feather the oars because the wind was
with us. I knew my hands wnuld blister and I w^anted
to delay it as long as I could. The boat w^as light and
row^ed easily. I pulled it along in the dark water. I could
not see, and hoped w^e wmuld soon come opposite
Pallanza.

We never saw Pallanza. The wind was blowing up
the lake and w’e passed the point that hides Pallanza in
the dark and never saw the lights. When we finally
saw some lights much further up the lake and close to
the shore it w^as Intra. But for a long time we did not
see any lights, nor did w'e see the shore but rowed steadily
in the dark riding with the weaves. Sometimes I missed
the water with the oars in the dark as a w^ave lifted the
boat. It was quite rough; but I kept on rowing, until
suddenly we w-ere close ashore against a point of rock
that rose beside us; the waves striking against it, rushing
high up, then falling back. I pulled hard on the right
oar and backed W’ater with the other and w^e w'ent out
into the lake again; the point w^as out of sight and we
wxre going on up the lake.

‘WeVe across the lake,’ I said to Catherine.

%Veren’t w^e going to see Pallanza?’

‘WeVe missed it.’

'How are you, darling?’

T’m fine.’

T could take the oars awhile.’

'No, I’m fine.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Toor Ferguson/ Catherine said. Tn the morning
shell come to the hotel and find we’re gone.’

T’m not worrjlng so much about that/ I said, ‘as
about getting into the Swiss part of the lake before it’s
daylight and the custom guards see us.’

Ts it a long way,^’

‘It’s thirty some kilometres from here.’

I rowed all night. Finally my hands were so sore I
could hardly close them over the oars. We were nearly
smashed up on the shore several times. I kept fairly
close to the shore because I was afraid of getting lost
on the lake and losing time. Sometimes we were so
close we could see a row of trees and the road along
the shore with the mountains behind. The rain stopped
and the wind drove the clouds so that the moon shone
through and looking back I could see the long dark
point of Castagnola and the lake with white-caps and
beyond, the moon on the high snow mountains. Then
the clouds came over the moon again and the moun-
tains and the lake were gone, but it was much lighter
than it had been before and we could see the shore. I
could see it too clearly and pulled out where they would
not see the boat if there were custom guards along the
Pailanza road. When the moon came out again we
could see white villas on the shore on the slopes of the
mountain and the white road where it showed through
the trees. All the time I was rowing.

The lake widened and across it on the shore at the
foot of the mountains on the other side we saw a few
lights that should be Luino, I saw a wedgelike gap be-
tween the mountains on the other shore and I thought
that must be Luino. If it was we were making good

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

time. I pulled in the oars and lay ’back on the seat. I
was very, very tired of rowing. ^IMy arms and shoulders
and back ached and my hands were sore.

T could hold the umbrella/ Catherine said. 'We
could sail with that with the wind/

'Can you steer?’

T think so.’

'You take this oar and hold it under your arm close
to the side of the boat and steer and 111 hold the um-
brella.’ I went back to the stern and showed her how
to hold the oar. I took the big umbrella the porter had
given me and sat facing the bow and opened it. It
opened with a clap. I held it on both sides, sitting
astride the handle hooked over the seat. The wind was
full in it and I felt the boat suck forward while I held
as hard as I could to the two edges. It pulled hard.
The boat was moving fast.

'We’re going beautifully/ Catherine said. All I
could see was umbrella ribs. The umbrella strained and
pulled and I felt us driving along with it. I braced my
feet and held back on it, then suddenly, it buckled; I
felt a rib snap on my forehead, I tried to grab the top
that was bending with the wind and the whole thing
buckled and went inside out and I was astride the
handle of an inside-out, ripped umbrella, where I had
been holding a wind-filled pulling sail. I unhooked the
handle from the seat, laid the umbrella in the bow and
went back to Catherine for the oar. She was laughing.
She took my hand and kept on laughing.

'What’s the matter?’ I took the oar.

'You looked so funny holding that thing/

T suppose so,’

'Don’t be cross, darling. It w^as awfully funny. You

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

looked about twenty feet broad and very affectionate
holding the umbrella by the edges ’ she choked.

Til row/

‘Take a rest and a drinlv. It’s a grand night and weVe
come a long way/

T have to keep the boat out of the trough of the
waves/

Tii get you a drink. Then rest a little while, darling.’

I held the oars up and we sailed with them. Catherine
was opening the bag. She handed me the brandy bottle.
I pulled the cork with my pocket-knife and took a long
drink. It was smooth and hot and the heat w^ent all
through me and I felt warmed and cheerful. Tt’s lovely
brandy,’ I said. The moon was under again but I could
see the shore. There seemed to be another point going
out a long way ahead into the lake.

‘Are you warm enough, Cat?’

T’m splendid. Fm a little stiff.’

‘Bail out that water and you can put your feet dowm.’

Then I rowed and listened to the rowlocks and the
dip and scrape of the bailing tin under the stern seat.

‘Would you give me the bailer?’ I said. ‘I want a drink.’

‘It’s awfully dirty.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll rinse it.’

I heard Catherine rinsing it over the side. Then she
handed it to me dipped full of w^ater. I was thirsty
after the brandy and the water was icy cold, so cold it
made my teeth ache. I looked toward the shore. We
were closer to the long point. There w^'ere lights in the
bay ahead.

‘Thanks/ I said and handed back the tin pail.

‘You’re ever so welcome,’ Catherine said. ‘There’s
much more if you want it.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Don’t you want to eat something?’

‘Xo. I’ll be hungry in a little while. We’ll save it
till then.’

‘All right.’

W hat looked like a point ahead was a long high headland.
I went further out in the lake to pass it. The lake was
much narrower now. The moon was out again and the
guardia di finanza could have seen our boat black on the
water if they had been watching.

‘How are you, Cat?’ I asked.

‘I’m all right. Where are we?’

‘I don’t think we have more than about eight miles
more.’

‘That’s a long way to row, you poor sweet. Aren’t you
dead?’

‘No. I’m all right. My hands are sore, that’s all.’

We went on up the lake. There was a break in the
mountains on the right bank, a flattening-out with a
low shore line that I thought must be Cannobio. I
stayed a long way out because it was from now on that
we ran the most danger of meeting guardia. There was
a high dome-capped mountain on the other shore away
ahead. I was tired. It was no great distance to row
but when you were out of condition it had been a long
way. I knew I had to pass that mountain and go up
the lake at least five miles further before we would be
in Swiss water. The moon was almost down now but
before it went down the sky clouded over again and it
was very dark. I stayed well out in the lake, rowing
awhile, then resting and holding the oars so that the
wind struck the blades.

‘Let me row awhile,’ Catherine said.

‘I don’t think you ought to.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Xonsense. It would be good for me. It would keep
me from being too stiff.’

T don’t think you should. Cat.’

‘Nonsense. Rowing in moderation is very good for
the pregnant lady.’

‘All right, you row a little moderately. I’ll go back,
then you come up. Hold on to both gunwales when you
come up.’

I sat in the stern with my coat on and the collar
turned up and watched Catherine row. She rowed very
well but the oars wure too long and bothered her. I
opened the bag and ate a couple of sandwiches and took
a drink of the brandy. It made everything much better,
and I took another drink.

‘Tell me when you’re tired,’ I said. Then a little
later, ‘Watch out the oar doesn’t pop you in the tummy.’

‘If it did’ - Catherine said between strokes - ‘life might
be much simpler.’

I took another drink of the brandy.

‘Ho%v are you going?’

‘All right.’

‘Tell me when you want to stop.’

‘All right.’

I took another drink of the brandy, then took hold
of the two gunwales of the boat and moved forward.

‘No. I’m going beautifully.’

‘Go on back to the stem. I’ve had a grand rest.’

For a while, with the brandy, I rowed easily and
steadily. Then I began to catch crabs and soon I was
just chopping along again with a thin brown taste of
bile from having rowed too hard after the brandy.

‘Give me a drink of water, will you?’ I said.

‘That’s easy,’ Catherine said.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Before daylight it started to drizzle. The wind %Tas
down or we were pro'^ected by mountains that bounded
the curv’e the lake had made. When I knew daylight
was coming I settled down and rowed hard. I did not
know where we were and I wanted to get into the Swiss
part of the lake. When it was beginning to be daylight
we were quite close to the shore. I could see the rocky
shore and the trees.

^What’s that?’ Catherine said. I rested on the oars
and listened. It was a motor-boat chugging out on the
lake. I pulled close up to the shore and lay quiet. The
chugging came closer; then wo saw the motor-boat in
the rain a little astern of us. There were four guardia
di finanza in the stern, their alpini]i2X.s, pulled down, their
cape collars turned up and their carbines slung across
their backs. They all looked sleepy so early in the morn-
ing. I could see the yellow^ on their hats and the yellow
marks on their cape collars. The motor-boat chugged
on and out of sight in the rain.

I pulled out into the lake. If we were that close to
the border I did not want to be hailed by a sentry along
the road. I stayed out where I could just see the shore
and rowed on for three-quarters of an hour in the rain.
We heard a motor-boat once more but I kept quiet until
the noise of the engine tvent away across the lake.

T think we’re in Smtzerland, Cat,’ I said.

‘Really?’

‘There’s no way to know until we see Swiss troops.’

‘Or the Swiss navy.’

‘The Swiss navy’s no joke for us. That last motor-
boat we heard w^as probably the Swiss navy.’

Tf we’re in Switzerland let’s have a big breakfast. They
have wonderful rolls and butter and jam in Switzerland.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

It was clear daylight now and a fine rain was falling.
The wind was still blowing outside up the lake and we
could see the tops of the white-caps going away from us
and up the lake. I was sure we were in Switzerland
now. There were many houses back in the trees from
the shore and up the shore a w^ay was a village with
stone houses, some villas on the hills and a church. I
had been looking at the road that skirted the shore for
guards but did not see any. The road came quite close
to the lake now and I saw a soldier coming out of a
cafe on the road. He %vore a grey-green uniform and
a helmet like the Germans. He had a healthy-iooking
face and a little toothbrush moustache. He looked at us.

‘Wave to him/ I said to Catherine. She waved and
the soldier smiled embarrassedly and gave a wave of his
hand. I eased up rowing. We were passing the water-
front of the village.

‘We must be well inside the border/ I said.

‘We want to be sure, darling. We don’t want them
to turn us back at the frontier.’

‘The frontier is a long way back. I think this is the
customs town. I’m pretty sure it’s Brissago.’

‘Won’t there be Italians there? There are always
both sides at a customs town.’ ■

‘Not in war-time. I don’t think they let the Italians
cross the frontier.’

It was a nice-looking little town. There were many
fishing-boats along the quay and nets were spread on
racks. There was a fine November rain falling but it
looked cheerful and clean even with the rain.

‘Should we land then and have breakfast?’

‘All right.’

I pulled hard on the left oar and came in close, then

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

straightened out when we were close to the quay and
brought the boat alongside. I pulled in the oars, took
hold of an iron ring, stepped up on the wet stone and
was in Switzerland. I tied the boat and held my hand

down to Catherine.

‘Come on up, Cat. It’s a grand feeling.’

‘What about the bags?’

‘Leave them in the boat.’

Catherine stepped up and w'e were in Switzerland to-
gether.

‘What a lovely countr;v%’ she said.

Tsn’t it grand?’

‘Let’s go and have breakfast!’

Tsn’t it a grand country? I love the way it feels under
my shoes.’

T’m so stiff I can’t feel it very well. But it feels like
a splendid country. Darling, do you realize we’re here
and out of that bloody place?’

T do. I really do. I’ve never realized anything before.’

‘Look at the houses. Isn’t this a fine square? There’s
a place we can get breakfast.’

‘Isn’t the rain fine? They never had rain like this in
Italy. It’s cheerful rain.’

‘And we’re here, darling! Do you realize we’re here?’

We went inside the cafe and sat down at a clean
wooden table. We were cockeyed excited. A splendid
clean-looking woman with an apron came and asked us
what we wanted.

‘Rolls and jam and coffee,’ Catherine said.

‘I’m sorry, we haven’t any rolls in war-time.’

‘Bread then.’

‘I can make you some toast.’

‘All right.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T want some eggs fried too.’

‘How* many eggs for the gentleman?’

‘Three.’

‘Take four, darling.’

‘Four eggs.’

The woman went away. I kissed Catherine and held
her hand ver}’’ tight. We looked at each other and at
the cafe.

‘Darling, darling, isn’t it lovely?’

‘It’s grand,’ I said.

‘I don’t mind there not being rolls,’ Catherine said.
‘I thought about them all night. But I don’t mind it.
I don’t mind it at all.’

‘I suppose pretty soon they will arrest us.’

‘Never mind, darling. We’ll have breakfast first.
You won’t mind being arrested after breakfast. And
then there’s nothing they can do to us. We’re British
and American citizens in good standing.’

‘You have a passport, haven’t you?’

‘Of course. Oh let’s not talk about it. Let’s be happy.’

‘I couldn’t be any happier,’ I said. A fat grey cat
with a tail that lifted like a plume crossed the floor to
our table and curved against my leg to purr each time
she rubbed. I reached down and stroked her. Catherine
smiled at me very happily. ‘Here comes the coffee,’
she said.

They arrested us after breakfast. We took a little
walk through the village then went down to the quay to
get our bags. A soldier was standing guard over the boat.

‘Is this your boat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where do you come from?’

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'Up the lake.'

'Then I have to ask you to come with me.'

'How about the bags?'

'You can carry the bags.'

I carried the bags and Catherine walked beside me
and the soldier walked along behind us to the old custom-
house. In the custom-house a lieutenant, very thin and
miiitar}% questioned us.

'What nationality are you?'

'American and British.’

'Let me see your passports.'

I gave him mine and Catherine got hers out of her
handbag.

He examined them for a long time.

‘Why do you enter Switzerland this way in a boat?'

‘I am a sportsman,' I said. ‘Rowing is my great sport.
I always row when I get a chance.’

‘Why do you come here?'

‘For the winter sport. We are tourists and we want
to do the -winter sport.’

‘This is no place for winter sport.’

‘We know it. We want to go where they have the
winter sport.'

‘What have you been doing in Italy?'

T have been studying architecture. My cousin has
been studying art.'

‘Why do you leave there?’

‘WY want to do the winter sport. With the war going
on you cannot study architecture.'

‘You will please stay w-here you are,’ the lieutenant
said. He went back into the building with our passports.

‘You’re splendid, darling,’ Catherine said. ‘Keep on
the same track. You want to do the winter sport.'

29s

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Do you know anything about art?’

'Rubens/ said Catherine.

'Large and fat/ I said.

'Titian/ Catherine said.

'Titian-haired/ I said. 'How about Mantegna?’

'Don’t ask hard ones/ Catherine said. 'I know him
though - very bitter.’

'Veiy^ bitter/ I said. 'Lots of nail holes.’

'You see I’ll make you a fine wife/ Catherine said.
'I’ll be able to talk art with your customers.’

'Here he comes/ I said. The thin lieutenant came dowm
the length of the custom house, holding our passports.

'I will have to send you into Locarno/ he said. ‘You
can get a carriage and a soldier will go in with you.’

'All right/ I said. 'What about the boat?’

'The boat is confiscated. What have you in those bags?’

He went all through the two bags and held up the
quarter bottle of brandy. 'Would you join me in a drink?’
I asked.

'No thank you.’ He straightened up. 'How much
money have you?’

'Twenty-five hundred lire.’

He w^as favourably impressed. 'How much has your
cousin?’

Catherine had a little over twelve hundred lire. The
lieutenant was pleased. His attitude toward us became
less haughty,

'If you are going for winter sports,’ he said. 'Wengen
is the place. My father has a very fine hotel at Wengen.
It is open all the time.’

'That’s splendid,’ I said. 'Could you give me the name?’

‘I will write it on a card.’ He handed me the card
very politely.

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"The soldier will take you into Locarno. He will
keep your passports. I regret this but it is necessary,
I have good hopes they will give you a visa or a police
permit at Locarno."

He handed the two passports to the soldier and carry-
ing the bags we started into the village to order a carriage.
'Hi/ the lieutenant called to the soldier. He said some-
thing in a German dialect to him. The soldier slung his
rifle on his back and picked up the bags.

Tt's a great country/ I said to Catherine.

Tt’s so practical."

'Thank you very much/ I said to the lieutenant.
He waved his hand.

^Service!' he said. We followed our guard into the
village.

We drove to Locarno in a carriage with the soldier
sitting on the front seat with the driver. At Locarno
we did not have a bad time. They questioned us but
they were polite because we had passports and money.
I do not think they believed a word of the story and I
thought it was silly but it was like a law court. You
did not want something reasonable, you wanted some-
thing technical and then stick to it without explana-
tions. But we had passports and we would spend the
money. So they gave us provisional visas. At any time
these visas might be withdrawn. We were to report to
the police wherever we went.

Could we go wherever we wanted? Yes. Where did
we want to go?

‘Where do you want to go, Cat?"

'Montreux."

Tt is a very nice place," the official said. T think you
will like that place."

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Here at Locarno is a very nice place/ another official
said. T am sure you would like it here very much at
Locarno. Locarno is a very attractive place/

'We would like some place where there is w^inter
sport.'

'There is no winter sport at Montreux

T beg your pardon/ the other official said. T come
from iVlontreux. There is very certainly winter sport
on the Montreux Oberland Bemois railway. It w^ould
be false for you to deny that.'

T do not deny it. I simply said there is no winter
sport at Montreux.'

T question that/ the other official said. T question
that statement/

T hold to that statement.'

T question that statement. I myself have luge-ed
into the streets of Montreux. I have done it not once
but several times. Luge-ing is certainly winter sport.'

The other official turned to me.

Ts luge-ing your idea of winter sport, sir? I tell you
you would be very comfortable here in Locarno. You
would find the climate healthy, you would find the en-
virons attractive. You would like it very much.'

'The gentleman has expressed a wish to go to Mon-
treux.'

'What is luge-ing?’ I asked.

‘You see he has never even heard of luge-ing!'

That meant a great deal to the second official. He
was pleased by that.

'Luge-ing,' said the first official, 'is tobogganing.'

'I beg to differ/ the other official shook his head.
‘I must differ again. The toboggan is very different
from the luge. The toboggan is constructed in Canada

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

of flat laths. The luge is a common sled with riimiers.
Accuracy means something^

‘Couldn’t we toboggan?’ I asked.

‘Of course you could toboggan/ the first official
said. ‘You could toboggan very well. Excellent Canadian
toboggans are sold in IMontreux. Ochs Brothers sell
toboggans. They import their own toboggans.’

The second official turned away. ‘Tobogganing/ he
said, ‘requires a special piste. You could not toboggan
into the streets of Montreux. Where are you stopping
here?’

‘We don’t know/ I said. ‘We just drove in from
Brissago. The carriage is outside.’

‘You make no mistake in going to Alontreux/ the
first official said. ‘You will find the climate delightful
and beautiful. You will have no distance to go for winter
sport.’

‘If you really want winter sport/ the second official
said, ‘you will go to the Engadine or to Miirren. I must
protest against your being advised to go to Montreux for
the winter sport.’

‘At Les A%"ants above Montreux there is excellent
winter sport of every sort.’ The champion of Montreux
glared at his colleague.

‘Gentlemen/ I said, ‘I am afraid 'we must go. Aly
cousin is very tired. We will go tentatively to IMontreux.’

‘I congratulate you,’ the first official shook my hand.

‘I believe that you will regret leaving Locarno/ the
second official said. ‘At any rate you will report to the
police at Montreux.’

‘There will be no unpleasantness with the police/
the first official assured me. ‘You will find all the in-
habitants extremely courteous and friendly.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

"Thank you both very much/ I said. "We appreciate
your advice veiy" much."

"Good-bye," Catherine said. "Thank you both verj"
much."

They bowed us to the door, the champion of Locarno
a little coldly. We went down the steps and into the
carriage.

"My God, darling," Catherine said. "Couldn’t we
have gotten away any sooner.^" I gave the name of a
hotel one of the officials had recommended to the driver.
He picked up the reins.

"You’ve forgotten the army," Catherine said. The
soldier was standing by the carriage. I gave him a ten-
lira note. "I have no Swiss money yet," I said. He
thanked me, saluted and w^ent off. The carriage started
and we drove to the hotel.

"How did you happen to pick out Montreux.?" I asked
Catherine. "Do you really want to go there?"

"It was the first place I could think of," she said. "It’s
not a bad place. We can find some place up in the moun-
tains."

"Are you sleepy?"

‘I"m asleep right now."

‘We’ll get a good sleep. Poor Cat, you had a long bad
night."

"I had a lovely time,’ Catherine said. "Especially
when you sailed with the umbrella."

"Can you realize w^e’re in Switzerland?"

"No, I’m afraid I’ll wake up and it won’t be true."

"I am too."

"It is true, isn’t it, darling? I’m not just driving down
to the stazione in Milan to see you off."

"I hope not."

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

* Don't say that. It frightens me. Maybe that’s where
we’re going.’

T'm so groggy I don’t know/ I said.

'Let me see your hands.’

I put them out. They were both blistered raw.

'There’s no hole in my side/ I said.

'Don’t be sacrilegious.’

I felt veiy tired and vague in the head. The exhii-
aration was all gone. The carriage was going along the
street.

'Poor hands/ Catherine said.

'Don’t touch them/ I said. 'By God I don’t know
where we are. Where are we going, driver?’ The driver
stopped his horse.

'To the Hotel Metropole. Don’t you want to go
there?’

'Yes/ I said. 'It’s all right, Cat.’

'It’s all right, darling. Don’t be upset. Well get a
good sleep and you won’t feel groggy to-morrow.’

T get pretty groggy/ I said. 'It’s like a comic opera
to-day. Maybe I’m hungry.’

'You’re just tired, darling. You’ll be fine.’ The
carriage pulled up before the hotel. Someone came out
to take our bags.

'I feel all right,’ I said. We were down on the pavement
going into the hotel.

'I know you’ll be all right. You’re just tired. You’ve
been up a long time.’

'Anyhow we’re here.’

'Yes, we’re really here.’

We followed the boy with the bags into the hotel.

301

CHAPTER 3S

That fall the snow came %’'er\'' late. We lived in a brown
wooden house in the pine trees on the side of the moun-
tain and at night there was frost so that there was thin
ice over the water in the tw'o pitchers on the dresser
in the morning* Airs. Guttingen came into the room
early in the morning to shut the windows and started
a fire in the tall porcelain stove. The pine wood crackled
and sparkled and then the fire roared in the stove and
the second time Airs. Guttingen came into the room
she brought big chunks of wood for the fire and a pitcher
of hot water. When the room was ’warm she brought
in breakfast. Sitting up in bed eating breakfast we
could see the lake and the mountains across the lake
on the French side. There was snow on the tops of
the mountains and the lake was a grey steel-blue.

Outside, in front of the chalet a road went up the
mountain. The wheel-ruts and ridges were iron hard
with the frost, and the road climbed steadily through
the forest and up and around the mountain to where
there were meadows, and barns and cabins in the
meadows at the edge of the woods looking across the
valley. The valley was deep and there was a stream at
the bottom that flowed down into the lake and when
the wind blew across the valley you could hear the stream
in the rocks.

Sometimes we went oif the road and on a path through
the pine forest. The floor of the forest was soft to walk

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

on; the froJt did not harden it as it did the road. But
we did not mind the hardness of the road because we
had nails in the soles and heels of our boots and the
heel nails bit on the frozen ruts and with nailed boots it
was good walking on the road and invigorating. But it
was lovely walking in the woods.

In front of the house where we lived the mountain
w^ent down steeply to the little plain along the lake and
we sat on the porch of the house in the sun and saw
the winding of the road down the mountain-side and
the terraced vineyards on the side of the lower mountain,
the vines all dead now for the winter and the fields
divided by stone walls, and below the vineyards the
houses of the town on the narrow plain along the lake
shore. There was an island with two trees on the lake
and the trees looked like the double sails of a fishing-
boat. The mountains were sharp and steep on the other
side of the lake and down at the end of the lake was
the plain of the Rhone Valley flat between the two
ranges of mountains; and up the valley where the moun-
tains cut it off was the Dent du Midi. It was a high
snowy mountain and it dominated the valley but it was
so far away that it did not make a shadow.

When the sun was bright we ate lunch on the porch
but the rest of the time we ate upstairs in a small room
with plain wooden walls and a big stove in the comer.
We bought books and magazines in the town and a
copy of Hoyle and learned many two-handed card games.
The small room with the stove was our living-room.
There were two comfortable chairs and a table for books
and magazines and we played cards on the dining-table
when it was cleared away. Mr. and Mrs. Guttingen
lived downstairs and we w^ould hear them talking some-

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

times in the evening and they were very happy together
too. He had been a head waiter and she had worked
as maid in the same hotel and they had saved their
money to buy this place. They had a son who was
sVidyinr to be a head waiter. He was at a hotel in Zurich.
Downstairs there was a parlour where they sold wine
and beer, and sometimes in the evening we would hear
carts stop outside on the road and men come up the steps
to go in the parlour to drink wine.

There was a box of wood in the hall outside the living-
room and I kept up the fire from it. But we did not
stay up very late. We went to bed in the dark in the
big bedroom and when I w'as undressed I opened the
windows and saw the night and the cold stars and the
pine trees below the window and then got into bed as
fast as I could. It was lovely in bed with the air so cold
and clear and the night outside the window. We slept
well and if I woke in the night I knew it was from only
one cause and I would shift the feather bed over,
ver\" softly so that Catherine would not be wakened,
and then go back to sleep again, warm and with the
new lightness of thin covers. The war seemed far
away. But I knew from the papers that they were
still fighting in the mountains because the snow would
not come.

Sometimes we walked down the mountain into IMon-
treux. There w'as a path went down the mountain but
it was steep and so usually we took the road and walked
down on the wide hard road between fields and then
below betv-een the stone walls of the vineyards and on
down between the houses of the villages along the way.
There were three villages Chemex, Fontanivant, and

307

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

the other I forget. Then along the road we passed an
old square-built stone chateau on a ledge on the side of
the mountain-side with the terraced fields of vines,
each vine tied to a stick to hold it up, the vines dry and
brown and the earth ready for the snow and the lake
down below fiat and grey as steel. The road went down
a long grade below the chateau and then turned to the
right and went down very steeply and paved with cobbles,
into Montreux.

We did not know anyone in Montreux. We walked
along beside the lake and saw the swans and the many
gulls and terns that flew up when you came close and
screamed while they looked down at the water. Out on
the lake there were flocks of grebes, small and dark,
and leaving trails in the water when they swam. In
the town w^e walked along the main street and looked
in the windows of the shops. There w'ere many big
hotels that were closed but most of the shops were open
and the people w-ere very glad to see us. There was a
fine coiffeur’s place where Catherine went to have her
hair done. The woman who ran it was very cheerful
and the only person we knew in Montreux. While
Catherine was there I went up to a beer place and
drank dark Munich beer and read the papers. I read
the Corriere della Sera and the English and American
papers from Paris. All the advertisements w^ere blacked
out, supposedly to prevent communication in that way
with the enemy. The papers were bad reading. Every-
thing was going very badly ever}"where. I sat back in
the corner with a heavy mug of dark beer and an opened
glazed-paper package of pretzels and ate the pretzels for
the salty flavour and the good way they made the beer
taste and read about disaster. I thought Catherine

308

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

woiiid come by but she did not come so I hung the papers
back on the rack, paid for my beer and went up the
street to look for her. The day was cold and dark and
wintf}’ and the stone of the houses looked cold, Catherine
was still in the hairdresser’s shop. The woman was
waving her hair. I sat in the little booth and watched.
It was exciting to watch and Catherine smiled and talked
to me and my voice was a little thick from being excited.
The tongs made a pleasant clicking sound and I could
see Catherine in three mirrors and it was pleasant and
warm in the booth. Then the woman put up Catherine’s
hair, and Catherine looked in the mirror and changed it
a little, taking out and putting in pins; then stood up. T’m
sorry to have taken such a long timed

‘Alonsieur was very interested. Were you not, mon-
sieur?’ the woman smiled.

‘Yes,’ I said.

We went out and up the street. It was cold and wintry
and the wind was blowing. ‘Oh, darling, I love you so,’
I said.

‘Don’t we have a fine time?’ Catherine said. ‘Look.
Let’s go some place and have beer instead of tea. It’s
Yory good for young Catherine. It keeps her small.’

‘Young Catherine,’ I said. ‘That loafer,’

‘She’s been very" good,’ Catherine said. ‘She makes
very little trouble. The doctor says beer will be good
for me and keep her small.’

Tf you keep her small enough and she’s a boy, maybe
he will be a jockey.’

T suppose if we really have this child we ought to
get married,’ Catherine said. We w^ere in the beer place at
the comer table. It was getting dark outside. It was still
early but the day was dark and the dusk was coming early.

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‘Let’s get married now,’ I said.

‘No,’ Catherine said. ‘It’s too embarrassing now. I
show too plainly. I won’t go before anyone and be married
in this state.’

‘I \rish we’d gotten married.’

‘I suppose it would have been better. But when
could we, darling?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I know one thing. I’m not going to be married in
this splendid matronly state.’

‘You’re not matronly.’

‘Oh, yes, I am, darling. The hairdresser asked me
if this was our first. I lied and said no, we had two
boys and two girls.’

‘When will we be married?’

‘Any time after I’m thin again. We want to have a
splendid wedding with eveiy'one thinking what a hand-
some young couple.’

‘And you’re not worried?’

‘Darling, why should I be worried? The only time I
ever felt badly was when I felt like a whore in Milan,
and that only lasted seven minutes and besides it was
the room furnishings. Don’t I make you a good wife?’

‘You’re a lovely wife.’

‘Then don’t be too technical, darling. I’U marry you
as soon as I’m thin again.’

‘All right.’

‘Do you think I ought to drink another beer? The
doctor said I was rather narrow in the hips and it’s all
for the best if we keep young Catherine small.’

‘What else did he say?’ I was worried.

Nothing. I have a wonderful blood-pressure, darling.
He admired my blood-pressure greatly.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'What did he say about you being too narrow in the
hips?*

'Xothing. Xothing at all. He said I shouldn't ski.’

'Quite right.’

'He said it was too late to start if I’d never done it
before. He said I could ski if I wouldn’t fall down.’

'He’s just a hig-har.rted joker.’

'Really he was very nice. Well have him when the
baby comes.’

'Did you ask him if you ought to get married?’

'Xo. I told him we’d been married four years. You
secj dariingj if I many- you III be an American and
an}^ time we’re married under American law the child
is legitimate.’

'Where did you find that out?’

'In the Xew York World Almanac in the library.’

'You’re a grand girl.’

'I’ll be very glad to be an American and well go to
America, won’t we, darling? I want to see Xiagara
Falls.’

'You’re a fine girl.’

'There’s something else I want to see but I can’t
remember it/

'The stockyards?’

'No. I can’t remember it.’

'The Woolworth building?’

'No.’

'The Grand Canyon?’

'No. But I’d like to see that.’

'What was it?’

'The Golden Gate! That’s what I want to see. Where
is the Golden Gate?’

'San Francisco/

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Then let’s go there. I want to see San Francisco
an way.’

‘All right. We’ll go there.’

‘Now let’s go up the mountain. Should we? Can we
get the M.O.B.?’

‘There’s a train a little after five.’

‘Let’s get that.’

‘All right. I’ll drink one more beer first.’

When we went out to go up the street and climb the
stairs to the station it was very cold. A cold wind was
coming down the Rhone valley. There were lights in
the shop windows and we climbed the steep stone stair-
way to the upper street, then up another stair to the
station. The electric train was there waiting, all the lights
on. There was a dial that showed when it left. The
clock hands pointed to ten minutes after five. I looked
at the station clock. It was five minutes after. As we
got on board I saw the motoiman and conductor coming
out of the station wine-shop. We sat down and opened
the window. The train was electrically heated and
stuffy but fresh cold air came in through the window.

‘Are you tired. Cat?’ I asked.

‘No. I feel splendid.’

‘It isn’t a long ride.’

‘I like the ride,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about me,
darling. I feel fine.’

Snow did not come until three days before Christ-
mas. We woke one morning and it was snowing. We
stayed in bed with the fire roaring in the stove and
watched the snow fall. Mrs. Guttingen took away the
breakfast trays and put more wood in the stove. It
was a big snowstorm. She said it had started about

312

A FAAhV.TiLL TO ARMS

midnight. I went to the window and looked out but
could not see across the road. It was blowing and
snowing wildly, I went back to bed and we Izy and

talked.

'I wish I could ski,’ Catherine said. Tt’s rotten not
to be able to ski.’

‘Well get a bobsled and come down the road. That’s
no worse for you than riding in a car.’

‘Won’t it be rough?’

‘We can see.’

‘I hope it won’t be too rough.’

‘After a while well take a walk in the snow.’

‘Before lunch,’ Catherine said, ‘so well have a good
appetite.’

T’m always hungry,’

‘So am L’

AVe went out in the snow but it was drifted so that
we could not walk far. I w^ent ahead and made a trail
down to the station but w’hen we reached there w'e had
gone far enough. The snow w^as blowing so W'e could
hardly see and w^e went into the little inn by the station,
and swept each other off with a broom and sat on a
bench and had vermouths.

‘It is a big storm,’ the barmaid said.

‘Yes.’

‘The snow" is very late this year.’

‘Yes.’

‘Could I eat a chocolate bar?’ Catherine asked. ‘Or
is it too close to lunch? I’m ahvays hungry.’

‘Go on and eat one,’ I said.

‘I’ll take one with filberts,’ Catherine said.

‘They are very good,’ the girl said, ‘I like them the
best.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Tli have another vermouth/ I said.

When we came out to start back up the road our
track was filled in by the snow. There were only faint
indentations where the holes had been. The snow blew
in our faces so we could hardly see. We brushed off
and went in to have lunch. Mr. Guttingen served the
lunch.

'To-morrow there will be ski-ing/ he said. 'Do you
ski, Mr. Henr}’?’

'No. But I want to learn.’

'You will learn very easily. My boy will be here for
Christmas and he will teach you.’

'That’s fine. When does he come?’

'To-morrow night.’

"When we were sitting by the stove in the little room
after lunch looking out the window at the snow coming
down Catherine said, 'Wouldn’t you like to go on a
trip somewhere by yourself, darling, and be with men
and ski?’

'No. Why should I?’ -

‘I should think sometimes you would w^ant to see other
people besides me/

'Do you want to see other people?’

'No.’

'Neither do I.’

‘I know. But you’re different. I’m having a child
and that makes me contented not to do anything. I know
I’m awfully stupid now and I talk too much, and I think
you ought to get away so you won’t be tired of me.’

'Do you want me to go away?’

'No. I want you to stay.’

'That’s what I’m going to do.’

'Come over here,’ she said. 'I want to feel the bump

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

OB your head. Its a big bump.’ She ran her finger
over it. 'Darlings would you like to grow a beard?’

"Would you like me to?’

"It might be fun. Fd like to see you with a beard.’

"All right. Ill grow one. Ill start now, this minute.
It’s a good idea. It will give me sometliing to do.’

"Are you worried because you haven’t anjlhing to do?’

"Xo. I like it. I have a fine life. Don’t you?’

T have a lovely life. But I was afraid because Fm big
now that maybe I was a bore to you.’

"Oh, Cat. You don’t know how crazy I am about you.’

"This way?’

"Just the way you are. I have a fine time. Don’t we
have a good life?’

‘I do, but I thought maybe you were restless.’

"Xo. Sometimes I wonder about the front and about
people I know but I don’t woriyu I don’t think about
anything much.’

"Who do you wonder about?’

"About Rinaldi and the priest and lots of people I
know. But I don’t think about them much. I don’t want
to think about the war. I’m through with it.’

"What are you thinking about now?’

"Nothing.’

"Yes you were. Tell me.’

‘I was wondering whether Rinaldi had the syphilis.’

"Was that all?’

"Yes.’

"Has he the syphilis?’

"I don’t know.’

"Fm glad you haven’t. Did you ever have anything
like that?’

"I had gonorrhea.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T don’t want to hear about it. Was it very painful,
darling?’

‘Very.’

T wish I’d had it.’

‘No you don’t.’

‘I do. I wish I’d had it to be like you. I wish I’d
stayed with ail your girls so I could make fun of them
to you.’

‘That’s a pretty picture.’

‘It’s not a pretty picture you having gonorrhea.’

‘I know it. Look at it snowing now.’

‘I’d rather look at you. Darling, why don’t you let
your hair grow?’

‘How grow'?’

‘Just grow a little longer.’

‘It’s long enough now.’

‘No, let it grow a little longer and I could cut mine
and we’d be just alike only one of us blonde and one of
us dark.’

‘I wouldn’t let you cut yours.’

‘It would be fun. I’m tired of it. It’s an awful nuisance
in the bed at night.’

‘I like it.’

‘Wouldn’t you like it short?’

‘I might. I like it the way it is.’

‘It might be nice short. Then we’d both be alike.
Oh, darling, I want you so much I want to be you
too.’

‘You are. We’re the same one.’

‘I know it. At night we are.’

‘The nights are grand.’

‘I want us to be all mixed up. I don’t want you to
go away. I just said that. You go if you want to. But

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

hurry right back. Why, darling, I don’t live at all when
I’m not with you.’

‘I won’t ever go away,’ I said. ‘I’m no good when
you’re not there. I haven’t any life at all any more.’

‘I want you to have a life. I want you to have a fine
life. But we’ll have it together, won’t we?’

‘And now do you want me to stop growing my beard
or let it go on?’

‘Go on. Grow it. It will be exciting. Alaybe it will
be done for Xew' Year’s.’

‘Now do you want to play chess?’

‘I’d rather play wdth you.’

‘Xo. Let’s play chess.’

‘And afterward we’ll play?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right.’

I got out the chess-board and arranged the pieces.
It was still snow’ing hard outside.

One time in the night I woke up and knew that
Catherine was awake too. The moon was shining in
the window and made shadows on the bed from the
bars on the window’-panes.

‘Are you awake, sweetheart?’

‘Yes. Can’t you sleep?’

‘I just woke up thinMng about how I was nearly crazy
when I first met you. Do you remember?’

‘You were just a little crazy.’

‘I’m never that way any more. I’m grand now. You
say grand so sweetly. Say grand.’

‘Grand.’

‘Oh, you’re sweet. And I’m not crazy now. I’m just
very, very, very happy.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Go on to sleep,’ I said.

‘All right. Let’s go to sleep at exactly the same moment.’
‘All right.’

But we did not. I was awake for quite a long time
thinking about things and watching Catherine sleeping,
the moonlight on her face. Then I went to sleep, too.

CHAPTER 39

By the middle of January I had a beard and the winter
had settled into bright cold days and hard cold nights.
W e could walk on the roads again. The snow was
packed hard and smooth by the hay-sleds and wood-
sleds and the logs that were hauled down the mountain.
The snow lay over all the country, down almost to
Montreux. The mountains on the other side of the lake
were all white and the plain of the Rhone valley was
cov'ered. We took long walks on the other side of the
mountain to the Bains d’Alliez. Catherine wore hob-
nailed boots and a cape and carried a stick with a sharp
steel point. She did not look big with the cape and w'e
would not w'alk too fast but stopped and sat on logs by
the roadside to rest when she was tired.

There was an inn in the trees at the Bains d’Alliez
where the wroodcutters stopped to drink, and we sat
inside warmed by the stove and drank hot red wine
with spices and lemon in it. They called it gluhwein and
it was a good thing to warm you and to celebrate with.
The inn was dark and smoky inside and afterward
when you went out the cold air came sharply into your

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lungs and numbed the edge of your nose as you inhaled.
We looked back at the inn with light coming from the
windows and the woodcutters" horses stamping and
jerking their heads outside to keep warm. There was
frost on the hairs of their muzzles and their breathing
made plumes of frost in the air. Going up the road
toward home the road was smooth and slippery for a
while and the ice orange from the horses until the wood-
hauling track turned off. Then the road was clean-packed
snow and led through the woods, and twice coming home
in the evening we saw foxes.

It was a fine country and every time that we vrent out
it was fun.

'You have a splendid beard now/ Catherine said.
Tt looks just like the woodcutters". Did you see the
man with the tiny gold earrings?"

'He"s a chamois hunter," I said. 'They wear them
because they say it makes them hear better."

'Really? I don’t believe it. I think theywear them to show
they are chamois hunters. Are there chamois near here?"

'Yes, beyond the Dent du Jaman."

'It was fun seeing the fox."

'When he sleeps he wraps that tail around him to keep
warm."

Tt must be a lovely feeling."

T always wanted to have a tail like that. Wouldn"t it
be fun if we had brushes like a fox?"

Tt might be very difficult dressing."

'We"d have clothes made, or live in a country where
it wouldn’t make any difference."

'We live in a country where nothing makes any differ-
ence. Isn’t it grand how we never see anyone? You
don’t want to see people, do you, darling?"

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘No.’

‘Should we sit here just a minute? I’m a little bit
tired.’

We sat close together on the logs. Ahead the road
went down through the forest.

‘She won’t come between us, will she? The little
brat.’

‘No. We won’t let her.’

‘How’ are w^e for money?’

‘We have plenty. They honoured the last sight draft.’

‘Won’t your family try and get hold of you now they
know you’re in Switzerland?’

‘Probably. I’ll w'rite them something.’

‘Haven’t you written them?’

‘No. Only the sight draft.’

‘Thank God I’m not your fanndly.’

‘I’ll send them a cable.’

‘Don’t you care anything about them?’

‘I did, but we quarrelled so much it wore itself out.’

‘I think I’d like them. I’d probably like them very
much.’

‘Let’s not talk about them or I’ll start to w'orry about
them.’ After a while I said, ‘Let’s go on if you’re rested.’

‘I’m rested.’

We went on down the road. It was dark now and
the snow squeaked under our boots. The night was dry
and cold and very clear.

‘I love your beard,’ Catherine said. ‘It’s a great suc-
cess. It looks so stiff and fierce and it’s very soft and a
great pleasure.’

‘Do you like it better than without?’

‘I think so. You know, darling, I’m not going to cut
my hair now until after young Catherine’s bom. I

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

look too big and matronly now. But after she’s born
and I’m thin again I’m going to cut it and then I’ll be
a fine new and different girl for you. We’ll go together
and get it cut, or I’ll go alone and come and surprise
you.’

I did not say ar.whing.

‘You won’t say I can’t, will you?’

‘No. I think it would be exciting.’

‘Oh, you’re so sweet. And maybe I’d look lovely,
darling, and be so thin and exciting to you and you’ll
fall in love with me all over again.’

‘Hell,’ I said, ‘I love you enough now. What do you
want to do? Ruin me?’

‘Yes. I want to ruin you.’

‘Good,’ I said, ‘that’s what I want too.’

CHAPTER 40

We had a fine life. We lived through the months of
January and February and the winter was very fine
and we were happy. There had been short thaws
when the wind blew warm and the snow softened and
the air felt like Spring, but always the clear hard cold
had come again and the winter had returned. In March
came the first break in the -winter. In the night it started
raining. It rained on all morning and turned the snow
to slush and made the mountain-side dismal. There
were clouds over the lake and over the valley. It -was
raining high up the mountain. Catherine wore heavy
overshoes and I wore Mr. Guttingen’s rubber-boots

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

and we walked to the station under an umbrella, through
the slush and the running water that was washing the
ice of the roads bare, to stop at the pub before lunch for
a vermouth. Outside w’e could hear the rain.

‘Do you think we ought to move into town?’

‘What do you think?’ Catherine asked.

Tf the winter is over and the rain keeps up it won’t
be fun up here. How long is it before young Catherine?’

‘About a month. Perhaps a little more.’

‘We might go down and stay in Montreux.’

‘Why don’t we go to Lausanne? That’s where the
hospital is.’

‘All right. But I thought maybe that was too big a
town.’

‘We can be as much alone in a bigger town and Lausanne
might be nice.’

‘When should we go?’

‘I don’t care. Whenever you want, darling. I don’t
want to leave here if you don’t want.’

‘Let’s see how the weather turns out.’

It rained for three days. The snow" was all gone now
on the mountain-side below the station. The road w^as
a torrent of muddy snow-water. It w^as too wet and
slushy to go out. On the morning of the third day of
rain we decided to go down into town.

‘That is all right, Mr. Henry,’ Guttingen said. ‘You
do not have to give me any notice. I did not think you
would want to stay now the bad weather is come.’

‘We have to be near the hospital an)w\^ay on account
of Madame,’ I said.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Will you come back some
time and stay, with the little one?’

‘Yes, if you would have room.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Tn the Spring when it is nice you could come and
enjoy it. We could put the little one and the nurse in
the big room that is closed now and you and iMadame
could have your same room looking out over the lake/

Til write about coming/ I said. We packed and
left on the train that went down after lunch. Air. and
Airs. Guttingen came down to the station with us and
he hauled our baggage down on a sled through the slush.
They stood beside the station in the rain waving good-b3’e.

‘They were very sweet/ Catherine said.

‘They were fine to us/

We took the train to Lausanne from Alontreux.
Looking out the window toward where we had lived
you could not see the mountains for the clouds. The
train stopped in Vevey, then went on, passing the lake
on one side and on the other the wet brown fields and
the bare woods and the wet houses. We came into
Lausanne and went into a medium-sized hotel to stay*
It was still raining as we drove through the streets and
into the carriage entrance of the hotel. The concierge
with brass keys on his lapels, the elevator, the carpets
on the floors and the white washbowls with shining
fixtures, the brass bed and the big comfortable bed-
room all seemed very great luxuiy- after the Guttingensl
The windows of the room looked out on a wet garden
with a wall topped by an iron fence. Across the street,
which sloped steepty, was another hotel with a similar
wall and garden. I looked out at the rain falling in the
fountain of the garden.

Catherine turned on all the lights and commenced
unpacking. I ordered a whisky and soda and lay on
the bed and read the papers I had bought at the station.
It was A larch 191S, and the German offensive had

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

started in France. I drank the whisky and soda and read
while Catherine unpacked and moved around the room.

‘You know what I have to get, darling,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Baby clothes. There aren’t many people reach my
time without baby things.’

‘You can buy them.’

‘I know. That’s what I’ll do to-morrow. I’ll fin d
out what is necessary.’

‘You ought to know. You were a nurse.’

‘But so few of the soldiers had babies in the hospitals.’
‘I did.’

She hit me with the pillow and spilled the whisky
and soda.

‘I’ll order you another,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I spilled it.’

‘There wasn’t much left. Come on over to the bed.’

‘No. I have to try and make this room look like some-
thing.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like our home.’

‘Hang out the Allied flags,’

‘Oh shut up.’

‘Say it again.’

‘Shut up.’

‘You say it so cautiously,’ I said. ‘As though you didn’t
want to offend anyone.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Then come over to the bed.’

‘All right.’ She came and sat on the bed. ‘I know
I’m no fun for you, darling. I’m like a big flour-barrel.’

‘No you’re not. You’re beautiful and you’re sweet.’

‘I’m just something very ungainly that you’ve married.’

‘No you’re not. You’re more beautiful all the time.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'But I will be thin again, darling.’

'You're thin now.’

'You’ve been drinking.’

'Just whisky and soda.’

'There’s another one coming,’ she said. 'And then
should we order dinner up here?’

'That will be good.’

'Then we w'on’t go out, will we? 'Well just stay in
to-night.’

'And play,’ I said.

‘I’ll drink some wine.’ Catherine said, Tt w’on’t
hurt me. Maybe -we can get some of our old white
capri.’

T know we can,’ I said. 'They 11 have Italian wines
at a hotel this size,’

The waiter knocked at the door. He brought the
whisky in a glass with ice and beside the glass on a tray
a small bottle of soda.

‘Thank you,’ I said. 'Put it dowm there. Will you
please have dinner for two brought up here and two
bottles of drj’' white capri in ice.’

'Do you wish to commence your dinner with soup?’

‘Do you want soup, Cat?’

'Please,’

'Bring soup for one.’

'Thank you, sir.’ He w'ent out and shut the door.
I went back to the papers and the w’ar in the papers, and
poured the soda slowly over the ice into the whisky. I
would have to tell them not to put ice in the w'hisky. Let
them bring the ice separately. That way you could tell
how' much whisky there was and it would not suddenly
be too thin from the soda, I would get a bottle of whisky
and have them bring ice and soda. That was the sensible

3^5

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

way. Good whisky was very pleasant. It was one of
the pleasant parts of life.

‘What are you thinking, darling?’

‘About w^hisky.’

‘WTiat about w'hisky?’

‘About how' nice it is.’

Catherine made a face. ‘All right,’ she said.

We stayed at that hotel three w-eeks. It was not
bad; the dining-room w’^as usually empty and very often
we ate in our room at night. We walked in the town
and took the cogwheel railway down to Ouchy and
walked beside the lake. The weather became quite
warm and it was like Spring. We wished w'^e were back
in the mountains but the Spring weather lasted only a
few days and then the cold rawness of the breaking up
of winter came again.

Catherine bought the things she needed for the baby
up in the towm. I went to a gymnasium in the arcade
to box for exercise. I usually w'ent up there in the
morning while Catherine stayed late in bed. On the
days of false Spring it was very nice, after boxing and
taking a shower, to walk along the streets smelling the
Spring in the air and stop at a cafe to sit and w’atch
the people and read the paper and drink a vermouth;
then go down to the hotel and have lunch with Catherine.
The professor at the boxing gymnasium wore moustaches
and was very precise and jerky and w'ent all to pieces
if you started after him. But it was pleasant in the gym.
There was good air and light and I worked quite hard,
skipping rope, shadow-boxing, doing abdominal exer-
cises lying on the floor in a patch of sunlight that came
through the open window, and occasionally scaring the

326

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

professor when we boxed. I could not shadow-box in
front of the narrow long mirror at first because it looked
so strange to see a man with a beard boxing. But finally
I just thought it was funny. I wanted to take off the
beard as soon as I started boxing but Catherine did not
want me to.

Sometimes Catherine and I went for rides out in
the country in a carriage. It was nice to ride w’hen the
days were pleasant and we found two good places where
we could ride out to eat. Catherine could not walk very
far now and I loved to ride out along the country roads
with her. When there was a good day we had a splendid
time and we never had a bad time. We knew the baby
was very close now and it gave us both a feeling as though
something were hurrying us and we could not lose any
time together.

CHAPTER 41

One morning I awoke about three o’clock hearing
Catherine stirring in the bed.

‘Are you ail right. Cat?’

‘I’ve been having some pains, darling.’

‘Regularly?’

‘No, not very.’

‘If you have them at all regularly we’ll go to the
hospital.’

I was very sleepy and went back to sleep. A little
while later I woke again.

‘Maybe you’d better call up the doctor,’ Catherine
said. ‘I think maybe this is it.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

I went to the phone and called the doctor. ‘How often
are the pains coming?’ he asked.

‘How often are they coming, Cat?’

T should think every quarter of an hour.’

‘You should go to the hospital then,’ the doctor said.
T will dress and go there right away myself.’

I hung up and called the garage near the station to
send up a taxi. No one answered the phone for a long
time. Then I finally got a man who promised to send
up a taxi at once. Catherine was dressing. Her bag
was all packed with the things she would need at the
hospital and the baby things. Outside in the hall I
rang for the elevator. There was no answer. I went
downstairs. There was no one downstairs except the
night-watchman. I brought the elevator up myself,
put Catherine’s bag in it, she stepped in and w^e w^ent
down. The night-watchman opened the door for us
and we sat outside on the stone slabs beside the stairs
down to the driveway and waited for the taxi. The
night was clear and the stars were out. Catherine was
very excited.

T’m so glad it’s started,’ she said. ‘Now in a little
while it will be all over.’

‘You’re a good brave girl.’

T’m not afraid. I wish the taxi would come, though.’

We heard it coming up the street and saw its head-
lights. It turned into the drivew’^ay and I helped Catherine
in and the driver put the bag up in front.

‘Drive to the hospital,’ I said.

We went out of the driveway and started up the hill.

At the hospital we went in and I carried the bag.
There was a w^oman at the desk who wrote down
Catherine’s name, age, address, relatives and religion,

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

in a book. She said she had no religion and the woman
drew a line in the space after that word. She gave her
name as Catherine Henry.

T will take you up to your room/ she said. We went
up in an elevator. The woman stopped it and we stepped
out and followed her dowm a hall. Catherine held tight
to my arm.

'This is the room/ the woman said. ‘Will you please
undress and get into bed? Here is a nightgown for you
to wear/

T have a nightgown/ Catherine said.

Tt is better for you to wear this nightgown/ the w^oman
said.

I went outside and sat on a chair in the hallway.

‘You can come in now/ the w’oman said from the
doorway. Catherine was lying in the narrow bed wear-
ing a plain, square-cut nightgown that looked as though
it were made of rough sheeting. She smiled at me.

T’m having fine pains now/ she said. The woman
was holding her wrist and timing the pains with a watch.

‘ That was a big one , ’ Catherine said . I saw it on her face .

‘Where’s the doctor?’ I asked the woman.

‘He’s lying down sleeping. He will be here when he is
needed.’

‘I must do something for Madame, now/ the nurse
said. ‘Would you please step out again?’

I went out into the hall. It was a bare hall with two
windows and closed doors all down the corridor. It
smelled of hospital. I sat on the chair and looked at
the floor and prayed for Catherine.

‘You can come in/ the nurse said. I went in.

‘Hello, darling/ Catherine said.

‘How is it?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARAIS

'They are coming quite often now.’ Her face drew
up. Then she smiled.

'That was a real one. Do you w’ant to put your hand
on my back again, nurse?’

Tf it helps you/ the nurse said.

'You go away, darling/ Catherine said. 'Go out
and get something to eat. I may do this for a long time
the nurse says.’

'The first labour is usually protracted/ the nurse said.

'Please go out and get something to eat/ Catherine
said. 'I’m fine, really.’

'I’ll stay awhile,’ I said.

The pains came quite regularly, then slackened off.
Catherine was ver\’ excited. When the pains were bad
she called them good ones. When they started to fall off
she was disappointed and ashamed.

'You go out, darling,’ she said. 'I think you are just
making me self-conscious.’ Her face tied up. 'There.
That was better. I so want to be a good wife and have
this child without any foolishness. Please go and get
some breakfast, darling, and then come back. I won’t
miss you. Nurse is splendid to me.’

'You have plenty of time for breakfast,’ the nurse said.

T’ll go then. Good-bye, sweet.’

'Good-bye,’ Catherine said, 'and have a fine breakfast
for me too.’

'Where can I get breakfast?’ I asked the nurse.

'There’s a cafe down the street at the square,’ she said.
'It should be open now.’

Outside it was getting light. I walked down the empty
street to the cafe. There was a light in the window.
I went in and stood at the zinc bar and an old man served
me a glass of white wine and a brioche. The brioche was

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Yesterday's. I dipped it in the wine and than drank a
glass of coffee.

'What do you do at this hour?' the old man asked.

'My wife is in labour at the hospital,’

'So. I wish you good luck.’

'Give me another glass of wine.’

He poured it from the bottle slopping it over a little
so some ran dowm on the zinc. I drank this glass, paid
and went out. Outside along the street w^ere the refuse
cans from the houses w^aiting for the collector. A dog
w’as nosing at one of the cans.

'What do you want?’ I asked and looked in the can
to see if there w^as an}i;hing I could pull out for him;
there w^as nothing on top but coffee-grounds, dust and
some dead flow’ers.

'There isn’t anjthing, dog,’ I said. The dog crossed
the street. I w^ent up the stairs in the hospital to the
floor Catherine w^as on and dowm the hall to her room.
I knocked on the door. There was no answ^er. I opened
the door; the room was empty, except for Catherine’s
bag on a chair and her dressing-gown hanging on a
hook on the w^all. I w^ent out and dowm the hall, looking
for somebody. I found a nurse.

'Where is Aladame Heniy?’

'A lady has just gone to the delivery room.’

'Where is it?’

T will show' you.’

She took me dowm to the end of the hall. The door
of the room wns partly open. I could see Catherine
lying on a table, covered by a sheet. The nurse was on
one side and the doctor stood on the other side of the
table beside some cylinders. The doctor held a rubber
mask attached to a tube in one hand.

33 ^

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T will give you a gown and you can go in/ the nurse
said, ‘Come in here, please.’

She put a white gown on me and pinned it at the neck
in back with a safety-pin.

‘Now yon can go in/ she said. I went into the room.

‘Hello 5 darling/ Catherine said in a strained voice.
‘I’m not doing much.’

‘You are Mr. Henr^^?’ the doctor asked.

‘Yes. How is everything going, doctor?’

‘Things are going very v/ell,’ the doctor said. ‘We
came in here where it is easy to give gas for the pains.’

‘I want it now,’ Catherine said. The doctor placed
the rubber mask over her face and turned a dial and I
watched Catherine breathing deeply and rapidly. Then
she pushed the mask aw^ay. The doctor shut off the
petcock.

‘That wasn’t a very big one. I had a very big one
a while ago. The doctor made me go clear out, didn’t
you, doctor?’ Her voice was strange. It rose on the
word doctor.

The doctor smiled.

‘I want it again,’ Catherine said. She held the rubber
tight to her face and breathed fast. I heard her moaning
a little. Then she pulled the mask away and smiled.

‘That was a big one,’ she said. ‘That was a very big
one. Don’t you worry, darling. You go away. Go have
another breakfast.’

‘FII stay,’ I said.

We had gone to the hospital about three o’clock in
the morning. At noon Catherine was still in the delivery
room. The pains had slackened again. She looked
very tired and worn now but she was still cheerful.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

T’m not any good, darling,’ she said. T’m so sorrj'.
I thought I would do it very easily. Now -there’s
one - ’ she reached out her hand for the mask and held
it over her face. The doctor moved the dial and watched
her. In a little wliile it was over.

Tt wasn’t much,’ Catherine said. She smiled. T’m
a fool about the gas. It’s wonderful.’

‘We’ll get some for the home,’ I said.

‘There me comes ^ Catherine said quickly. The doctor
turned the dial and looked at his watch.

‘What is the interval now?’ I asked.

‘About a minute.’

‘Don’t you want lunch?’

‘I will have something pretty soon,’ he said.

‘You must have something to eat, doctor,’ Catherine
said. ‘I’m so sorry I go on so long. Couldn’t my husband
give me the gas?’

‘If you wish,’ the doctor said. ‘You turn it to the
numeral two.’

‘I see,’ I said. There was a marker on a dial that turned
with a handle.

‘I want it now,' Catherine said. She held the mask
tight to her face. I turned the dial to number two
and when Catherine put down the mask I turned
it off. It was very good of the doctor to let me do
something.

‘Did you do it, darling?’ Catherine asked. She stroked
my wrist.

‘Sure.’

‘You’re so lovely.’ She was a little drunk from the gas.

T will eat from a tray in the ne.vt room,’ the doctor
said. ‘You can call me any moment.’ While the time
passed I watched him eat, then, after a while, I saw that

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FAREWELL TO ARMS

he was lying down and smoking a cigarette. Catherine
was getting very tired.

"Do you think I'll ever have this baby?’ she asked.

"Yes, of course you will.’

T tr}’ as hard as I can. I push down but it goes away.
There it comes. Give it to me.'"

At two o'clock I went out and had lunch. There
were a few men in the cafe sitting with coffee and glasses
of kirsch or marc on the tables. I sat down at a table.
"Can I eat?’ I asked the waiter.

"It is past time for lunch.’

"Isn’t there anything for all hours?’

"You can have choucroiite.^

"Give me choucroiite and beer.’

"A demi or a bock?’

"A light demi.’

The waiter brought a dish of sauerkraut with a slice
of ham over the top and a sausage buried in the hot
wine-soaked cabbage. I ate it and drank the beer. I w^as
very hungry. I w’atched the people at the tables in the
cafe. At one table they were playing cards. Tw^o men
at the table next me were talking and smoking. The
cafe w^as full of smoke. The zinc bar, where I had
breakfasted, had three people behind it now; the old
man, a plump w’oman in a black dress who sat behind
a counter and kept track of everything serv^ed to the
tables, and a boy in an apron. I w^ondered how many
children the woman had and w^hat it had been like.

When I was through with the choucroute 1 went
back to the hospital. The street w^as all clean nowu
There were no refuse cans out. The day w^as cloudy
but the sun w^as trying to come through. I rode upstairs
in the elevator, stepped out and w’'ent down the hall

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

to Catherine's room, where I had left my white gown.
I put it on and pinned it in back at the neck. I looked
in the glass and saw myself looking like a fake doctor
with a beard. I went down the hall to the delivery^
room. The door was closed and I knocked. No one
answered so I turned the handle and went in. The
doctor sat by Catherine. The nurse was doing some-
thing at the other end of the room.

‘Here is your husband/ the doctor said.

‘Oh, darling, I have the most wonderful doctor/
Catherine said in a very strange voice. ‘He's been telling
me the most wonderful story and when the pain came
too badly he put me all the way out. He's wonderful.
You’re wonderful, doctor.’

‘You’re drunk/ I said.

‘I know it,’ Catherine said. ‘But you shouldn’t say
it.’ Then ^Give it to me. Give it to meJ She clutched
hold of the mask and breathed short and deep, pantingly,
making the respirator click. Then she gave a long sigh
and the doctor reached with his left hand and lifted a^vay
the mask.

‘That was a very big one/ Catherine said. Her voice
was very strange. T’m not going to die now, darling.
I’m past where I was going to die. Aren’t you glad?’

‘Don’t you get in that place again.’

‘I won’t. Fm not afraid of it though. I won't die,
darling.’

‘You will not do an}" such foolishness/ the doctor
said. ‘You would not die and leave your husband.’

‘Oh, no. I won’t die. I wouldn’t die. It’s silly to
die. There it comes. Give it to meJ

After a while the doctor said, ‘You will go out, Air.
Henry, for a few moments and Its ill make an examination/

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘He %vants to see how I am doing,’ Catherine said.
‘You can come back afterward, darling, can’t he, doctor?’

‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘I will send word when he can
come back.’

I went out the door and down the hall to the room
where Catherine was to be after the baby came. I sat
in a chair there and looked at the room. I had the paper
in my coat that I had bought when I went out for lunch
and I read it. It was beginning to be dark outside and
I turned the light on to read. After a while I stopped
reading and turned off the light and watched it get
dark outside. I wondered why the doctor did not send
for me. Maybe it was better I was away. He probably
wanted me aw^ay for a while. I looked at my watch.
If he did not send for me in ten minutes I would go down
anyway.

Poor, poor dear Cat. And this was the price you
paid for sleeping together. This was the end of the
trap. This was what people got for loving each other.
Thank God for gas, anyway. What must it have been
like before there were ansesthetics? Once it started
they were in the mUl-race. Catherine had a good time
in the time of pregnancy. It wasn’t bad. She was
hardly ever sick. She was not awfully uncomfortable
until toward the last. So now they got her in the end.
You never got away with anything. Get away hell!
It would have been the same if we had been married
fifty times. And what if she should die? She won’t
die. People don’t die in childbirth nowada5rs. That
was what all husbands thought. Yes, but what if she
should die? She won’t die. She’s just having a bad
time. The initial labour is usually protracted. She’s
only having a bad time. Afterward w’e’d say what a

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

bad time, and Catherine would say it wasn^t really so
bad. But what if she should die? She can’t die. Yes,
but what if she should die? She can’t, I tell you. Don’t
be a fool. It’s just a bad time. It’s just nature giving
her hell. It’s only the first labour, which is almost al-
ways protracted. Yes, but what if she should die?
She can’t die. Why would she die? What reason is
there for her to die? There’s just a child that has to
be bom, the by-product of good nights in Milan. It
makes trouble and is born and then you look after it
and get fond of it maybe. But wLat if she should die?
She won’t die. But what if she should die? She won’t.
She’s all right. But w^hat if she should die? She can’t
die. But what if she should die? Hey, what about that?
What if she should die?

The doctor came into the room.

‘How does it go, doctor?’

Tt doesn’t go,’ he said.

‘WTiat do you mean?’

‘Just that. I made an examination - ’ He detailed
the result of the examination. ‘Since then I’ve waited to
see. But it doesn’t go.’

‘WTiat do you advise?’

‘There are two things. Either a high forceps delivery
which can tear and be quite dangerous besides being
possibly bad for the cluld, and a Caesarean.’

‘What is the danger of a Caesarean?’ What if she
should die!

Tt should be no greater than the danger of an ordinary
deliveiyu’

‘Would you do it yourself?’

‘Yes. I would need possibly an hour to get things ready
and to get the people I would need. Perhaps a little less.’

T 337

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'What do you think?’

T would advise a Caesarean operation. If it were my
wife I would do a Caesarean.’

'What are the after effects?’

'There are none. There is only the scar.’

'What about infection?’

'The danger is not so great as in a high forceps de-
livery.’

'What if you just went on and did nothing?’

'You ivould have to do something eventually. Mrs.
Henry is already losing much of her strength. The
sooner we operate now the safer.’

'Operate as soon as you can,’ I said.

'I will go and give the instructions.’

I went into the delivery room. The nurse w’-as with
Catherine who lay on the table, big under the sheet,
looking very pale and tired.

'Did you tell him he could do it?’ she asked.

'Yes.’

‘Isn’t that grand. Now it will be all over in an hour.
I’m almost done, darling. I’m going all to pieces. Please
give me that. It doesn’t work. Oh, it doesn't work!'

'Breathe deeply.’

‘I am. Oh, it doesn’t work any more. It doesn’t
work!’

'Get another cylinder,’ I said to the nurse.

‘That is a new cylinder.’

'I’m just a fool, darling,’ Catherine said. 'But it
doesn’t work any more.’ She began to cry. 'Oh, I
wanted so to have this baby and not make trouble, and
now I’m all done and all gone to pieces and it doesn’t
work. Oh, darling, it doesn’t work at all. I don’t care
if I die if it will only stop. Oh, please, darling, please

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

make it stop. There it comes. Oh Oh Oh!’ She breathed
s'fbbirgly in the mask. Tt doesn’t work. It doesn’t
work. It doesn’t w'ork. Don’t mind me, darling. Please
don’t cry. Don’t mind me. I’m just gone all to pieces.
You poor sweet. I love you so and I’ll be good again.
I’ll be good this time. Can’t they give me something? If
they could only give me something.’

T’ll make it work. I’ll turn it all the way.’

‘Give it to me now.’

I turned the dial all the way and as she breathed
hard and deep her hand relaxed on the mask. I shut
off the gas and lifted the mask. She came back from a
long way away.

'That was lovely, darling. Oh, you’re so good to me.’

‘You be brave, because I can’t do that all the time. It
might kill you.’

‘I’m not brave any more, darling. I’m all broken.
They’ve broken me. I know it now.’

‘Everybody is that way.’

‘But it’s awful. They just keep it up till they break
you.’

‘In an hour it wall be over.’

‘Isn’t that lovely? Darling, I won’t die, will I?’

‘No. I promise you won’t.’

‘Because I don’t want to die and leave you, but I
get so tired of it and I feel I’m going to die.’

‘Nonsense. Everybody feels that.’

‘Sometimes I know' I’m going to die.’

‘You w'on’t. You can’t.’

‘But w'hat if I should?’

‘I won’t let you.’

‘Give it to me quick. Give it to meT

Then afterward, ‘I won’t die. I w'on’t let myself die.’

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A FAREWELL TO ARIMS

'Of course you won’t/

'You’ll stay with me?’

'Not to watch it/

'No, just to be there/

'Sure, ril be there all the time/

'You’re so good to me. There, give it to me. Give me
some more. Ifs not working F

I turned the dial to three and then four. I wished
the doctor would come back, I was afraid of the numbers
above two.

Finally a new doctor came in with tw^o nurses and
they lifted Catherine on to a wheeled stretcher and we
started down the hall. The stretcher went rapidly down
the hall and into the elevator where everyone had to
crowd against the wall to make room; then up, then
an open door and out of the elevator and down the
hall on rubber wheels to the operating room. I did
not recognize the doctor with his cap and mask on.
There was another doctor and more nurses.

^They've got to give me somethings Catherine said.
^They've got to give me something. Oh please, doctor,
give me enough to do some good!’

^One of the doctors put a mask over her face and I
looked through the door and saw the bright small amphi-
theatre of the operating room.

'You can go in the other door and sit up there,’ a
nurse said to me. There were benches behind a rail
that looked down on the white table and the lights. I
looked at Catherine. The mask was over her face and
she was quiet now. They wheeled the stretcher for-
ward. I turned away and walked down the hall. Two
nurses were hurrying toward the entrance to the gallery.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘It’s a C^arean,’ one said. ‘They’re going to do a
Caesarean.’

The other one laughed, ‘We’re just in time. Aren’t
we lucky?’ They went in the door that led to the gallery.

Another nurse came along. She was huriy’ing too.

‘You go right in there. Go right in,’ she said.

‘I’m staying outside.’

She hurried in. I walked up and down the hail. I
was afraid to go in. I looked out the window. It was
dark but in the light from the window I could see it
was raining. I went into a room at the far end of the hall
and looked at the labels on bottles in a glass case. Then
I came out and stood in the empty hall and watched the
door of the operating room.

A doctor came out followed by a nurse. He held
something in his two hands that looked like a freshly
skinned rabbit and hurried across the corridor wdth it
and in through another door. I went down to the door
he had gone into and found them in the room doing
things to a new-born child. The doctor held him up for
me to see. He held him by the heels and slapped him.

‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s magnificent. He’ll weigh five kilos.’

I had no feeling for him. He did not seem to have
anything to do with me. I felt no feeling of fatherhood.

‘Aren’t you proud of your son?’ the nurse asked.
They were w’ashing him and wrapping him in some-
thing. I saw the little dark face and dark hand, but I
did not see him move or hear him cry. The doctor was
doing something to him again. He looked upset.

‘Xo,’ I said. ‘He nearly lulled his mother.’

‘It isn’t the little darling’s fault. Didn’t you want a
boy?’

341

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'No/ I said. The doctor was busy with him. He
held him up by the feet and slapped him. I did not
wait to see it. I went out in the hall. I could go in now
and see. I w'ent in the door and a little way down the
gallery. The nurses who were sitting at the rail motioned
for me to come where they were. I shook my head.
I could see enough where I was.

I thought Catherine was dead. She looked dead.
Her face was grey, the part of it that I could see. Dowm
below, under the light, the doctor was sewing up the
great long, forcep-spread, thick-edged wound. Another
doctor in a mask gave the ansesthetic. Two nurses in
masks handed things. It looked like a drawing of the
Inquisition. I knew as I watched I could have watched
it all, but I was glad I hadn’t. I do not think I could
have watched them cut, but I watched the wound
closed into a high welted ridge with quick skilful-
looking stitches like a cobbler’s and w^as glad. WTaen
the wound was closed I went out into the hall and walked
up and down again. After a while the doctor came out.

‘How is she?’

‘She is all right. Did you watch?’

He looked tired.

‘I saw you sew up. The incision looked very long.’

‘You thought so?’

‘Yes. Will that scar flatten out?’

‘Oh, yes.’

After a while they brought out the wheeled stretcher
and took it very rapidly down the hallway to the ele-
vator. I went along beside it. Catherine was moaning.
Downstairs they put her in the bed in her room. I sat
in a chair at the foot of the bed. There was a nurse
in the room. I got up and stood by the bed. It was dark

342

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

in the room. Catherine put out her hand, ‘Hello, darling,’
she said. Her voice was very weak and tired.

‘Hello, you sweet.’

‘What sort of baby was it?’

‘Sh - don’t talk,’ the nurse said.

‘A boy. He’s long and wide and dark.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’s fine.’

I saw the nurse look at me strangely.

‘I’m aw’fully tired,’ Catherine said. ‘And I hurt like
hell. Are you all right, darling?’

‘I’m fine. Don’t talk.’

‘You w'ere lovely to me. Oh darling, I hurt dreadfully.
What does he look like?’

‘He looks like a skinned rabbit with a puckered-up
old-man’s face.’

‘You must go out,’ the nurse said. ‘Madame Henry
must not talk.’

‘I’ll be outside,’ I said.

‘Go and get something to eat.’

‘No. I’ll be outside.’ I kissed Catherine. She W’as
very grey and w'eak and tired.

‘May I speak to you?’ I said to the nurse. She came
out in the hall with me. I walked a little way down the
hall.

‘What’s the matter with the baby?’ I asked.

‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No.’

‘He wasn’t alive.’

‘He w'as dead?’

‘They couldn’t start him breathing. The cord was
caught around his neck or something.’

‘So he’s dead.’

343

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Yes. It’s such a shame. He was such a fine big boy,
I thought you knew.’

'No/ I said. 'You better go back in with Aladame.’

I sat down on the chair in front of a table where
there were nurses’ reports hung on clips at the side and
looked out of the window. I could see nothing but
the dark and the rain falling across the light from the
window. So that was it. The baby was dead. That
was why the doctor looked so tired. But w^hy had they
acted the way they did in the room with him? They
supposed he would come around and start breathing
probably. I had no religion but I knew he ought to
have been baptized. But wdiat if he never breathed at
all. He hadn’t. He had never been alive. Except in
Catherine. I’d felt him kick there often enough. But
I hadn’t for a w’’eek. Maybe he ivas choked all the time.
Poor little kid. I wished the hell I’d been choked like
that. No I didn’t. Still there would not be all this dying
to go through. Now Catherine would die. That was
what you did. You died. You did not know what it
was about. You never had time to learn. They threw
you in and told you the rules and the first time they
caught you off base they killed you. Or they killed
you gratuitously like Aymo. Or gave you the syphilis
like Rinaldi. But they killed you in the end. You could
count on that. Stay around and they would kill you.

Once in camp I put a log on top of the fire and it was
full of ants. As it commenced to burn, the ants swarmed
out and went first towards the centre wLere the fire
was; then turned back and ran toward the end. When
there were enough on the end they fell off into the fire.
Some got out, their bodies burnt and flattened, and
went off not knowing w^here they were going. But most

344

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

of them went toward the fire and then back toward
the end and swarmed on the cool end and finally fell
off into the fire, I remember thinking at the time that
it was the end of the world and a splendid chance to be
a messiah and lift the log off the fire and throw" it out
where the ants could get off onto the ground. But I
did not do anything but throw a tin cup of water on
the log, so that I would have the cup empty to put
whisky in before I added w^ater to it. I think the cup
of water on the burning log only steamed the ants.

So now I sat out in the hall and waited to hear how
Catherine was. The nurse did not come out, so after a
wLile I w"ent to the door and opened it very softly and
looked in. I could not see at first because there was a
bright light in the hall and it was dark in the room.
Then I saw the nurse sitting by the bed and Catherine’s
head on a pillow, and she all flat under the sheet. The
nurse put her finger to her lips, then stood up and came
to the door.

'How is she?’ I asked.

'She’s all right/ the nurse said. 'You should go and
have your supper and then come back if you wish/

I went down the hail and then dowm the stairs and
out the door of the hospital and down the dark street
in the rain to the cafe. It w'as brightly lighted inside
and there were many people at the tables. I did not
see a place to sit, and a waiter came up to me and took
my wet coat and hat and showed me a place at a table
across from an elderly man who w^as drinking beer and
reading the evening paper. I sat down and asked the
waiter what the plat du jour was.

'Veal stew - but it is finished.’

'What can I have to eat?’

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘Ham and eggs, eggs with cheese, or choucroutej^

T had choucroiite this noon,’ I said.

‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘That’s true. You ate chou-
croiite this noon.’ He was a middle-aged man with a
bald top to his head and his hair slicked over it. He
had a kind face.

‘What do you want? Ham and eggs or eggs with cheese?’

‘Ham and eggs,’ I said, ‘and beer.’

‘A demi-blonde?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I remembered,’ he said. ‘You took a demi-blonde
this noon.’

I ate the ham and eggs and drank the beer. The ham
and eggs were in a round dish -the ham underneath
and the eggs on top. It was very hot and at the first
mouthful I had to take a drink of beer to cool my mouth.
I was hungry and I asked the \vaiter for another order.
I drank several glasses of beer. I w^as not thinking at all
but read the paper of the man opposite me. It was about
the break through on the British front. When he realized
I was reading the back of his paper he folded it over. I
thought of asking the waiter for a paper, but I could not
concentrate. It was hot in the cafe and the air was bad.
Many of the people at the tables knew one another. There
were several card games going on. The waiters were busy
bringing drinks from the bar to the tables. Two men
came in and could find no place to sit. They stood op-
posite the table where I was. I ordered another beer.
I was not ready to leave yet. It was too soon to go back
to the hospital. I tried not to think and to be perfectly
cakn. The men stood around but no one was leaving,
so they went out. I drank another beer. There was
quite a pile of saucers now on the table in front of me.

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A FAREWELL TO ARMS

The man opposite me had taken off his spectacles, put
them away in a case, folded his paper and put it in his
pocket and now sat holding his liqueur glass and looking
out at the room. Suddenly I knew I had to get back.
I called the waiter, paid the reckoning, got into my coat,
put on my hat and started out the door. I walked through
the rain up to the hospital.

Upstairs I met the nurse coming down the hall.

T just called you at the hotel,’ she said. Something
dropped inside me,

‘What is wrong?’

‘Mrs. Henryk has had a haemorrhage.’

‘Can I go in?’

‘No, not yet. The doctor is with her.’

Ts it dangerous?’

Tt is very dangerous.’ The nurse went into the room
and shut the door. I sat outside in the hall. Everything
was gone inside of me. I did not think. I could not
think. I knew she was going to die and I prayed that
she would not. Don’t let her die. Oh, God, please
don’t let her die. I’ll do anything for you if you won’t
let her die. Please, please, please, dear God, don’t let her
die. Dear God, don’t let her die. Please, please, please
don’t let her die. God, please make her not die. Ill do
anything you say if you don’t let her die. You took the
baby but don’t let her die - that was all right but don’t
let her die. Please, please, dear God, don’t let her die.

The nurse opened the door and motioned with her
finger for me to come. I followed her into the room.
Catherine did not look up when I came in. I went over
to the side of the bed. The doctor was standing by the
bed on the opposite side. Catherine looked at me and
smiled. I bent down over the bed and started to cr}u

347

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

'Poor darling/ Catherine said very softly. She looked
grey,

'YouVe all right, Cat/ I said. 'You’re going to be
all right.’

T’m going to die/ she said; then waited and said, T
hate it.’

I took her hand.

'Don’t touch me,’ she said. I let go of her hand.
She smiled. 'Poor darling. You touch me all you
want.’

'You’ll be all right, Cat. I know you’ll be all right.’

'I meant to write you a letter to have if an5rthing hap-
pened, but I didn’t do it.’

'Do you want me to get a priest or anyone to come
and see you?’

‘Just you,’ she said. Then a little later, ‘I’m not afraid.
I just hate it.’

'You must not talk so much,’ the doctor said.

'All right,’ Catherine said.

'Do you want me to do anything, Cat? Can I get you
anything?’

Catherine smiled, 'No.’ Then a little later, 'You
won’t do our things with another girl, or say the same
things, will you?’

‘Never.’

'I want you to have girls, though.’

‘I don’t want them.’

'You are talking too much,’ the doctor said. 'You
cannot talk. Mr. Henry must go out. He can come back
again later. You are not going to die. You must not be
silly.’

'All right,’ Catherine said. T’ll come and stay with
you nights,’ she said. It was very hard for her to talk.

348

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Tlease go out of the room/ the doctor said. Catherine
winlced at me^ her face grey. T’ll be right outside/ I

said.

‘Don’t worry, darling/ Catherine said. T’m not a
bit afraid. It’s just a dirty trick.’

‘You dear, brave sweet.’

I waited outside in the hall. I waited a long time.
The nurse came to the door and came over to me. T’m
afraid Mrs. Henry is very ill/ she said. T’m afraid for
her.’

Ts she dead?’

‘No, but she is unconscious.’

It seems she had one haemorrhage after another.
They couldn’t stop it. I went into the room and stayed
with Catherine until she died. She was unconscious
all the time, and it did not take her very long to die.

Outside the room in the hall I spoke to the doctor. Ts
there anything I can do to-night?’

‘No. There is nothing to do. Can I take you to your
hotel?’

‘No, thank you. I am going to stay here a while.’

‘I know there is nothing to say. I cannot tell you

‘No/ I said. ‘There’s nothing to say.’

‘Good night/ he said. ‘I cannot take you to your
hotel?’

‘No, thank you.’

Tt was the only thing to do/ he said, ‘The operation
proved

‘I do not want to talk about it/ I said.

T would like to take you to your hotel.’

‘No, thank you.’

He went down the hall. I went to the door of the room.

349

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

‘You can’t come in now,’ one of the nurses said.

‘Yes, I can,’ I said.

‘You can’t come in yet.’

‘You get out,’ I said. ‘The other one too.’

But after I had got them out and shut the door and
turned off the light it wasn’t any good. It was like saying
good-bye to a statue. After a while I went out and left
the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain.

THE END